


Loneliness

by Iridogorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Molly Hooper, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Developing Relationship, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, It's dark and then it gets better, Jim Moriarty Being an Asshole, Jim and Molly have a kid, Kidnapping, Parentlock, Possessive Jim Moriarty, Sexual Content, Sherlock is a Brat, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-08-05 11:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16366658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: Jim pays Molly one last visit before the rooftop, and the consequences ripple through the rest of her life.AU after TGG





	1. Like Looking In A Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of the idea of 'How can I do a kidnap fic without it being too non-con?' which is, really, a strange question to ask yourself. I've also wanted to write a 'What if Molly Hooper got pregnant via Jim Moriarty, and kept it?' fic for a while now. This is my tidy little answer to both!
> 
> Many thanks to ribcage, BurningLostStars, ll_again, Ridiculosity, and TheBookishTea for their feedback and inspiration during this fic!

The first time Saoirse saw her father, it was New Year’s Day.  She was almost two and a half years old and his face was plastered across the television in the front room.  She couldn’t recall much, just that his eyes were dark and his hair was brown and he looked a little familiar.  He was chanting words she didn’t really know, and her mother didn’t want her to repeat. It wouldn’t be until years later that she realized she’d seen parts of his face since she was old enough to look into a mirror.

Her mother had violently ripped the plug from the outlet and checked every lock in the modest apartment, and Saoirse followed her around like it was a game.  Hours later, she slept soundly in her mother’s thin arms, both of them tucked into a closet. Her mother had held her with one arm and kept the other on the kitchen knife by her side.  ‘Hide and seek,’ she’d said with a wobbly smile.

Later, they’d slept at a hotel for a week.

A month after that, they moved to somewhere with two deadbolts on the door.

 

* * *

 

The second time Saoirse saw her father, it was at Uncle Sherlock’s house.  She was five and going through a pile of old newspapers. She’d found an article about a trial, and instantly recognized him as the man from the television two years previous.

She’d wandered into the kitchen, finding Uncle Sherlock and Mummy standing very close together, their heads tilted to the side.  They were so lost in each other that Saoirse had to deliberately knock into the kitchen table to get them to look at her. She liked Uncle Sherlock, but sometimes he and Mummy looked at each other a little too closely.  She liked Uncle Sherlock, but always from a distance, and never with his eyes on her.

She looked between them with her dark, knowing eyes, and raised an eyebrow that had Sherlock flicking his eyes between the old newspaper she held in front of her and her face.

“Mummy, is this the man from the television?  When I was small?”

Mummy’s face had blanched white, and Sherlock had silently plucked the newspaper from her with his long fingers, delicately folding it in half.  He was always a little more wary with Saoirse than he was with John’s new baby girl, Rosie.

“Y...yes, darling, that was him.”

Saoirse just looked between Sherlock, who had his hand on Mummy’s back, and Mummy, who had both of her hands held tightly to her chest.

“...okay.”  She turned around and walked back to the living room.

The next time they went to Uncle Sherlock’s house, there weren’t any piles of newspaper lying about.

 

* * *

 

The third time Saoirse saw her father, she was six years old.  It was November 20th, 2018, and she was picked up early from Year 2, Mrs. Semplay’s class, by a frantic Molly Hooper.

She looked very normal, apologizing to her teacher for forgetting a doctor’s appointment, loading up her sparkly pink sequin backpack with assignments to complete at home and helping Saoirse into her jacket, flipping her long, dark hair out of the collar.  There was a tremble to her hands that Saoirse noticed. Something was wrong.

They started to walk briskly, the highly secured and reinforced flat just around the corner from the school.

“Mum, there is no doctor’s appointment, is there?”

Molly held her tightly to her side.  “No, darling. We need to pack, and I need to have a talk with you.  Something’s happened.”

Saoirse felt her eyes fill with tears.  “Has someone died?” Aunt Mary’s tragic end was still fresh on her mind, despite the many years that gapped between them.

Molly tightened her grip on Saoirse’s shoulders, “No, darling.  Nobody has died, fortunately, though it would be easier if someone had.  No more questions until we’re in private.” She was silent for the rest of the way home, contemplating her mother's cryptic answer.

Molly used her fob to open the front door, nodding to the front desk security guard, a kind old man who offered a piece of candy to Saoirse.  She gave a grin with dimples, and Molly ushered her into the lift, letting Saoirse push the topmost button. They shot up into the sky silently, Saoirse wincing as her ears popped. They lived in a penthouse, because those doors had an access code, and a special sort of lock that was supposed to be impossible to break into.  The hallway was silent as they rushed out, Molly keeping one hand on her daughter's shoulder.  Molly punched in the ten digit code as Saoirse sucked on her butterscotch, unlocking both deadbolts and using the thumbprint scanner (Uncle Mycroft had that installed on the first day they moved in) she swung the door open and led Saoirse inside.

There was a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a surprised look on his face sitting on their well worn couch.  He looked very familiar.

Molly made a soft little yelp and Saoirse felt her heartbeat speed up.

“Hello there, little one.  My my, Molly Hooper. I leave for a few years and you build a whole new life without me.”

Molly’s hand tightened on Saoirse’s shoulder.  She snuck a look up at her mother’s face, and it was carefully blank, but Saoirse saw the fear in her eyes.

She crunched on the candy and studied the man on the couch, somehow not feeling the same fear.  He was smaller than she thought. Slim. He looked pretty harmless, almost like if he messed up his hair he’d be the host of one the storyteller programs she’d liked to watch as a baby.  His suit was dark, his shirt was white, and…”Why are you holding a gun?”

He looked at it in surprise, then smoothly stood and tucked it into his jacket pocket.  “No reason. Now, what is your name?”

“Don’t answer that.”  Her mother’s voice was low, angry, but Saoirse felt compelled to respond. She wasn't afraid.

“My name is Saoirse Hooper.  What’s yours?”

His eyes lit up, flicking to Molly’s taut face.  “What an...Irish name. My name is James Moriarty.”

Saoirse tucked her hands into the pockets of her pink denim pants.  “That’s an Irish name too.”

He bent down, lacing his fine hands between his legs.  “You’re observant. Do you want to know a secret?” He gave a conspiratorial smile and she found herself sharing it.  The shape of his smile was as familiar as her own.

“ _Jim._ ” Molly hissed through clenched teeth.

He ignored her, keeping eye contact with Saoirse.  “I believe...”

Molly yelled, shoving Saoirse backwards and throwing a heavy vase from the entryway at him.  “ _DON’T SAY ANOTHER FUCKING WORD!”_ Turned around, trying to push Saoirse through the door, whispering “Don’t stop running, Saoirse, go to Uncle Sherlock’s, that’s the only place you’ll be safe.”

A large man, dressed in black, blocked the entryway, scooping up the child, who started to panic and kick, making high pitched squeals, trying to go for the man’s eyes, nose, ears, sensitive membranes.  She got his right eye with her little fist and the man grunted before shaking her like a dog with a toy.

“Sebastian.”  Jim Moriarty’s soft voice cut through all the noise, and Saoirse looked over her shoulder to see the slim man standing, hands in his pockets, glaring at the man holding her.  “Be gentle or be dead. Your options.”

The man holding her was blinking rapidly, reflexive tears gathering in his hurt eye.  “But Boss, she-”

“Are you choosing dead?”  He pulled the gun out of his pocket and aimed it in their direction.  Looking at her frightened face, he clucked his tongue, “Don’t worry, my own, I’m a very good shot.”

“Apparently not,” Molly spat, “Because you missed your brain with a gun in your _mouth_.”  She was being held by the arms by another brawny man who looked startlingly similar to the one holding Saoirse.  He had a scratch down his face and Molly’s hair had fallen out of it’s neat ponytail.

He gave a loose shrug, somehow not moving the hand pointing the gun.  “We all have our off days, darling.” He flicked his gaze over to Molly, who was only staring at the gun.  “I think I’ve got my response. Sebastian, gentle.” He put the offending instrument back in his pocket and walked toward them, Molly’s breathing growing heavier with each step.  “Now, little one, as I was say-”

“You’re my father.”  Saoirse said it flatly.  “I’m not _stupid_. We have the same eyes, the same chin, genealogy is not the hardest concept to grasp. Plus, Mummy never let me look at a picture of you on purpose.”  She looked over at her mother, who couldn’t look her in the eye. Jim, however, was beaming.

“Yes, you’re definitely mine.”

 

* * *

 

Shortly afterwards, Molly and Saoirse found themselves tucked into the back of a large black SUV, the front desk security guard nowhere to be seen as they were hustled out of the building.

Sebastian and his counterpart were both openly carrying rifles.

Jim was the last one in the car.  “Well,” he started cheerfully, “your things will be packed up and delivered within the week.  For now-”

Molly cut him off, “No.”

Jim simply gave her a cold smile.  “We’ll have this discussion later, dear, but suffice it to say that I’m back, that place is not safe, and I have to protect that which is mine.  And make no mistake, what you’ve built here is _mine_.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Later, then.”  Molly Hooper knew when to pick her battles, and this was a discussion she couldn’t have in front of her daughter.  She reached next to her and held Saoirse’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“You don’t look that surprised, Saoirse.”  Jim commented, crossing one ankle over the other.

Saoirse looked up at her mother, who raised her arm and let her burrow in next to her.  Molly answered for her. “She’s very observant, Jim. Highly intelligent. Gifted. I had to force the school to keep her in her proper grade, instead of sending her to the most advanced classes.  She’s known you were her father since that broadcast. She figured it out right then and there, I know it. Sherlock has even started-” She bit her tongue and glared at him. Molly looked defiant and proud of her daughter, rubbing small circles into her shoulder.  “She’s probably been expecting you to show up for years.”

Jim didn’t know how to react, so he seemed to settle for tilting his head and studying the pair with large eyes.

They were silent for the rest of the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saoirse is conceived November 20th, 2011. That means her birthday is August 20th, 2012, a Monday. Saoirse is pronounced “seer-sha”. The closest way I can think to spell it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think.


	2. Your Actions Have Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and me and the devil makes three, I don't need nobody but the babe.

They pulled up to a very tall building, built out of glass and in a very posh neighborhood.  Jim got out first, and held out his hand to help Molly. She ignored it, stepping out of the car and helping Saoirse, automatically fixing her jacket and backpack.  She put herself between Jim and his daughter, putting her arm around Saoirse’s small shoulders.

“It looks nice for a prison,” she commented sarcastically.  Her grip on Saoirse didn’t falter.

Jim ignored her, “Home sweet home!” He announced cheerfully.

As they all crowded into the lift, Saoirse squished between Molly and the far wall, Jim leaning on the wall opposite and the two large men standing in front of the doors, she noticed them swipe a card through a reader and push the top floor button.

“Cool,” she whispered.  Molly squeezed her shoulder in warning, but Jim leaned down and winked at her.

“That’s not even the coolest part, my own.”  When the doors opened, he pushed his way past the men, one of whom stayed in the elevator to hold the door until Molly and Saoirse got out.  One man behind them so they couldn’t flee, another in front so they couldn’t run forward. He was smiling at Saoirse like he was about to share a great secret and held up his arm, pressing his smartwatch into the wall.

After a few seconds, Saoirse felt intrigued, then a section of the wall opened, and the panel slide smoothly to the side.  A hidden elevator. She felt her eyes grow huge and a smile started to split her face. She took a step forwards before Molly’s iron grip held her in place.

“Absolutely not.”  Molly’s voice was completely flat, and Saoirse recognized that ‘Saoirse-Hooper-I-am-you-mother-and-you-will-listen-to-me’ tone.  This was not going to be pretty.

Jim’s smile got nasty, “Worried dear Sherlock won’t be able to find you, Molly-mine?”  The bodyguard behind them took a step closer. “Worried your knight in shining Belstaff won’t come swanning in to save you?”

Saoirse was suddenly afraid to hear tears in her mother’s voice.  “Let us go, Jim. I’m doing fine on my own. Saoirse is doing fine with just me.  Just...let us go. Leave us alone.” Saoirse’s shoulder was starting to hurt from her mother’s hard grip.  Molly said, almost too softly, “If we go in there, I doubt we’ll be coming back out again.”

Jim looked at her with something like regret in his eyes,  “Men worse than me know you exist, Molly Hooper. The reason Saoirse came to my attention is because of them.  I have pictures, notes. Threats. This is the only safe space for the two of you right now.” His gaze softened, ever so slightly, when his eyes landed on Saoirse.  “I protect that which is mine.”

Without another word, they all herded into the elevator that shot up to the hidden top of the building, but the only thing Saoirse would remember was the salty smell of her mother’s tears and the feel of her hands gripping her small shoulders.

He hadn’t contradicted her last statement.

 

* * *

 

It turned out to both be better and worse than Molly had imagined.  The penthouse was enormous, full of expensive, tasteful furniture and appliances.  It was spacious, clean, and filled with natural light. It _was_ lovely, like a gilded cage.

Jim walked down the large hallway, the two bodyguards herding Molly and Saoirse after them.

“Saoirse, your room is here.”  He gestured to a white door, and then to the door directly next to it.  “Molly, your room. Bathroom for you two is across the hall, feel free to use the pool on the roof, but only when you have a guard with you.  Severin will be assigned to you both, Sebastian is with me. Don’t go into my office or my room. And don’t worry, nobody can get in here.” The unspoken, ‘Nobody can get out.’ made her hair stand on end.  With that short introduction, Jim and a man who must have been Sebastian disappeared into a room at the end of the hall. Molly heard the very distinct sound of a lock sliding into place.

Aside from the large brawny man at their backs, Saoirse and Molly were alone.

 

* * *

 

They saw surprisingly little of Jim over the next week.  He was mostly in his office, and when would come out to get food it was usually at night.  If Saoirse was up, she would usually duck behind a bookcase or behind a chair to avoid talking to him.  She’d still peek out to spy, but she wouldn’t engage him. He looked… not alright. The few times she did see him, she was pretty sure he hadn’t changed out of the suit he’d picked them up in, his hair got wilder each time, and while he would wolf down marmalade sandwiches, she’d never seen him eat a real meal.  His bodyguard was a silent shadow, always hovering around the edges of his existence. The large man scared her and discouraged her from approaching him.

She’d heard her father and her mom talking one night, when she was laying in her mom’s bed.

“Why isn’t she in her room?”  He hissed.

“Because she’s SIX and she’s SCARED because we’re being IMPRISONED here.”  Her mom hissed right back. “She often slept with me at home, and if you think I’m letting her out of my sight for an entire night then you have another thing coming.”  She sighed. “I… she has to go to school, Jim. We’ve missed a week. She needs her routine, she’s adjusting to this, but…” What she didn’t say was how this was going to become normal for Saoirse, and Molly would give anything to avoid that.  Children adapted to new situations far quicker than adults, and her window for getting Saoirse back to her normal life was closing. “And she misses her things, her friends. You said our stuff was being packed.”

“The school isn’t a problem.” He said crossly.  “It’s been handled.” He neatly avoided the topic of their belongings.

A long pause, then, “Moriarty, what did you do?”  The words were very low and very calm.

“There were… complications.  The school wasn’t safe. One of the staff was an assassin.”  Her mother’s quick inhale, then his voice got soft, “I wasn’t lying when I said someone worse than me found out about her.”  Saoirse found her heart racing as she listened closely. “...she’s from our last time, isn’t she?” His voice was almost too soft to hear.

Saoirse felt rather than heard her mother’s hesitant nod.  “...yes.”

Saoirse felt exhaustion pull heavy on her little eyelids and didn’t catch the rest of the conversation as she slipped deeply into sleep.

She also didn’t see how Molly and Jim assessed each other uneasily, that night so long ago but still so fresh in their minds.

 

* * *

 

_November 20th, 2011_

Molly grabbed his shoulders as he swung her around, holding her by her compact waist, his head dipping toward hers as he moved to kiss her.  She moved one hand to his mouth, and he snuck his tongue out to lick between her fingers obscenely while his eyes slowly opened. Black as night and twice as frightening.

Her lips were swollen and red, her pupils blown, and she gasped out, “Jim, why are you…”

“I want to feel _something_.” Was his short answer as he shoved her hand away and roughly took her mouth.  Possessive, intense, like he had something to prove.

He sat her on a cold, empty slab and rubbed his palm forcibly over the crotch of her pants, pushing the seam up against her with his fingers.  A moan ripped itself out of her throat without her permission, and he grinned wickedly.

She tried to push his hands away, “Jim...sto..stop.  We need to-” He kissed her again, biting at her lower lip.  She bunched the heavy fabric of his coat in her fist.

He gentled, turning the kiss into something slow and sweet and soft.  He ran his hand up her back, taking her hair out of it’s sensible ponytail and running his hands through it.  He removed his other hand from her waist and put it on the table behind her, leaning his weight into her. Her hands went to his shoulders to balance herself.

He pulled back, both of them panting, and looked her.  She tilted her head, he mimicked her. He quickly nuzzled his nose against hers, kissing the corner of her mouth gently.  Of everything they’d yet done, this was the act that brought a blush to her face. She gave him a shy smile and he found the corner of his mouth quirking up in return.  She tilted her face up and they made a quiet game of trying to kiss one another, flitting back and forth, weaving around each other, coaxing smiles and smoldering looks until he finally caught her chin delicately with his index finger and pressed his mouth soundly against hers.  The little game was, by far, the most intimate thing they’d ever done and it made him feel desperately warm. Something inside of him turned over, and it was such a new sensation that he almost froze. Something inside of her swelled, and she recognized the pang in her heart with a sensation between elation and unease.  He caught her gaze and she must have seen the thing like fear in his eyes, that new sensation flowing through his brain and blood and lungs, and her eyes softened. She gave a small nod with a smile and he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers.

Later, they would both recognize that as a tipping point.  They stepped over a boundary and could not turn back.

He took her as gently as he’d ever done, like he was now determined to try something new.  His zipper pushed down, her pants lowered just enough, fabric pushed out of the way and then he cradled her head as he entered her, kissing her as they both gasped.  It was soft and made them both tingle, every brush of their flesh against each other like sparks. Nerve endings sending off little jolts of electricity, breaths intermingling, and when he spilled into her and rested his head against her shoulder, groaning her name into her white lab coat, she cried out softly and held him to her, legs locked around his waist, milking him of his seed.

Afterward, he’d helped her right her clothing and she’d smoothed down his blazer, tucking him away and rebuttoning the bottom of his shirt.  They’d kissed one last time, a soft brush of lips, before he looked at her with something deep and sad in his eyes, pressing his thumb into her thin bottom lip, a moment in a bubble that was just for the two of them, and then he’d strode out of the doors as confidently as he’d entered.

The very last time she saw Jim Moriarty, it was his lifeless body being zipped into a bag in her morgue, on the table where he’d had her hours earlier. She automatically wiped up spatters of blood and brain and small slivers of bone after Mycroft’s men had whisked him away.  She hadn’t wept.

Not until six weeks later, when she was heaving at the smell of her favorite chicken curry and clutching a positive pregnancy test in one shaking hand.  She remembered the look on his face and the feeling of his mouth pressing against the corner of hers.

She kept the baby.

She named the girlchild, born at the end of summer, Saoirse.  It meant freedom.

 

* * *

 

_December, 2018_

After that first week in November, Jim started to act a little more… normal.  Human-normal, not Jim-normal. Saoirse suspected that the first week was Jim-normal.  Now, he displayed a kind of… interest in her. Jim awkwardly tried to be a parent to Saoirse.  Not in a rule-enforcing way, but more of a passing-on-knowledge and being fun way. He only did it when Molly’s back was turned, which was very rarely.  More like a secret friend than a parent, really.

He’d hired two private tutors, one to round out her required academic subjects, and the other to teach her something _fun_.

Fun meant wildly different things for Saoirse.  For the Hooper half of her, it meant arts and crafts, baking, and doing autopsies on small animals Sebastian would sometimes sneak her after a job.  So far, only a bullfrog and an unfortunate sparrow, but she’d accepted both gratefully. She was starting to get interested in taxidermy as well, and books kept cropping up in Jim’s well stocked library.

But for the half that was Hooper, there was a counter half that was Moriarty.  Fun for the Moriarty side involved knives, plots, bombs, riddles and… chess. Lots and lots of chess.  Jim took it upon himself to be her teacher, and one bitterly cold December afternoon, Molly wandered into the library to find Jim patiently sitting at a little table, Saoirse frowning at the board in between them.

She froze.  Saoirse was a private, intelligent, independent child.  At home, she had often requested quiet time behind closed doors.  Molly would often peek in to find her absorbed in a book or painting, or sometimes just staring out of the window, thinking.  So when Saoirse had chosen the library for her quiet spot, Molly had decided to be respectful and give her space.

Molly hadn’t really seen Jim be overly interested in Saoirse until now.  To her, it had seemed more like he observed her, looking for parts of himself in her mind, instead of directly interacting with her.  Her demands for a tutor had fallen on deaf ears, it had taken Saoirse asking politely one time and then he’d hired them instantly. Molly had sometimes seen him checking her work in his office, on those rare occasions when the door was open.

She cleared her throat.  Both of them looked up at her, wearing identical guilty expressions.  She plastered on a fake smile, “Jim, can I talk to you outside?”

He eyed her warily, “Certainly.  Saoirse, go-”

Molly cut him off, “Go practice your maths.  Long division, if you please. Practice your times tables if you finish early.”

Saoirse made a face, but slid out of the chair and stomped toward the long table with her homework spread out over it.

Jim stood and strode towards Molly, and as soon as he was close enough she reached out and grabbed his arm in a surprisingly strong grip, dragging him to his office.  He was too shocked to shove her off of him. Nobody manhandled Jim Moriarty and lived. Nobody, apparently, except the mother of his child. As soon as they were past the threshold, he yanked his arm back and made a show of adjusting his shirtsleeves.  Molly turned and hissed at him, “Stay _away_ from my daughter.”

He frowned at her, “She’s my daughter too.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him, “Just because we had sex and _I_ produced a child, that does not give you parental rights, James Moriarty.  You DIED before she was even a zygote, remember? You’ve been gone for six _years_ .  I didn’t even really know you were alive until last month.  You can’t just _swann in_ and expect to start playing CHESS with her!”  Molly’s face was getting red, “I want you to find the people who threatened us and kill them.  Eradicate them for threatening to harm my baby. Bring me their HEADS in a BAG, and then let us GO.  I’ve indulged this long enough. We’re not… not a _family_.”  She spat the last word like it was poison.  

His eyes had gotten very dark and he stepped in close to her, drastically invading her private space.  He tilted his head in a dangerous way, eyes trained on her angry face. “There’s a price, you know. Dear Jim doesn’t work for free.”

She scoffed, refused to back down, “And how much for _Dear Jim’s_ services?”  The set of her eyes was hard, her arms crossed under her breasts, her chin thrust out defiantly.

He chuckled darkly.  “For this time, or the next one?  How about the one after that?” She tilted her head sharply, raising her eyebrow.  “Oh, you think nobody was watching me swoop in and sweep you out, hide you away? I give you my personal guarantee that every single one of my enemies knows about Saoirse now.  And you. I’ve as good as claimed you as my _family._ ”  Throwing the word back in her face like a curse.  He leaned in, cheek next to hers, as he whispered in her ear, “How much to fight them all, so you can have your freedom?  So you can live in a cheap little flat and she can go to a substandard public school? So you can fuck _Sherlock Holmes_ on a lazy Sunday morning while John Watson makes my daughter pancakes?”  He pulled away to see her reaction, face carefully blank.

Molly blanched and looked down.  She breathed, closed her eyes for a heartbeat and glared back at him.  “Yes, how much for that? I want my life back. I want to go to my job, assuming I haven’t been fired.  I want Saoirse to have her friends, and learn how to interact with humans outside of _murder_ and _riddles_.  And yes, I want to fuck Sherlock Holmes on a lazy Sunday morning, while Uncle John makes breakfast for his daughter and mine.  So, Dear Jim, what is the cost?”

They stared at each other in silence, their faces inches apart.

“Do you realize,” he said softly, “how many people I would have to kill for this mundane little fantasy?  An exorbitant number, Molly Hooper, even by my standards. Not just people who want to hurt me, but people who want to blackmail me.  People who are going to assume that you and Saoirse are valuable. That you two are my pressure points.  That taking you is going to _get to me._ ”  He stepped forward, walking her back until she hit the bookcase and could go no further.  He caged her in with his arms, pressing himself intimately to her. “And do you know, Molly Hooper, how _right_ those people would be?”

Molly was completely stunned, and that was the only reason she didn’t push him away when he leaned his head down and kissed her.

It was slow and deep and when she opened her mouth to gasp he slipped his tongue inside, hands moving to her shoulders and down her arms, Molly keeping her limbs straight and even, refusing to let him get a reaction out of her.  He was a damn good kisser though, and Molly couldn’t help but tilt her head to compliment the angle of his, and press her body against his, just a little. He pressed back ever so slightly before letting her go.

He lingered for a minute, taking in her flushed cheeks, reddened lips and mussed hair.

He stepped back, giving her space.  He fiddled with his cuffs and looked away, clearing his throat.  “Saoirse would miss you, I assume, if you were kidnapped and killed.  I can’t realistically plant someone in close enough proximity at the hospital to keep you safe to my standards.  I’m sure you understand. Perhaps, with time, we can build you a lab and you can research.”

Molly considered him.  It wasn’t an unrealistic excuse, and it wasn’t an outright no.  She was a beggar, so she could not be a chooser. She gave a sharp nod.  “And Saoirse? Her school?”

He shook his head once.  “Absolutely not. There was an assassin in that school for who knows how long, waiting for the right time to probably slit her throat or take her captive.  I can probably still find you the head, if you want it.”

Molly looked at him, expecting some sort of joking expression, but he looked deadly serious.  “Well, no, that’s fine. I believe that you… dealt with the problem.” She rubbed her forehead.  “I want her to have friends and be in _some_ sort of social environment.  She’s intelligent, the work is not the problem, it’s the socializing.  She’s got a lot of you in her, I need her to be treated normally.”

He rolled his eyes at her.  “I went to public school. Look at how I turned out.”

Molly let the silence stretch out uncomfortably.

He huffed.  “I can’t risk her.  I _won’t_ risk her.  But..” He looked thoughtful.  “I can ask my crew. Some of them might have children squirreled away somewhere.”

Molly raised her eyebrow.  “The children of murders and assassins?  Yeah, that’s exactly what I had in mind.”

Jim shot her an annoyed look.  “So judgy. Some of my staff are perfectly normal people, I’ll have you know, and that’s exactly what makes them so dangerous.  I also employ three personal shoppers, a tailor, a chef, two accountants and five lawyers. Not to mention the crew I retain to clean this place.  Sebby and Sevvie are rather more permanent and less allowed personal time, so I’d be surprised if any of their past dalliances have had children, and then, of course, there’s the few other crime bosses I have alliances with.”

Molly blinked.  “That’s… a lot of people.  Who exactly are you allied with?”

He smirked at her.  “Nobody, right now, but since Saoirse came to live here I’ve gotten ten invitations for birthday parties and informal gatherings, to let the children play.  I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them brought up marriage contracts.” At Molly’s horrified look, he waved his hand. “Old families. It’s common. Doesn’t mean I’m going to do it, but don’t be surprised if some of them ask you about her prospects.”

She gave him a blank stare, “Would I… be there?”

He raised his eyebrow.  “Of course. You’re her mother.”

She stammered, “But, people… wouldn’t they… assume some things?”

He leaned against the wall opposite her.  “What would they assume?”

Molly rubbed her eyes, feeling a headache coming on.  “The obvious. Either that I’m your wife or your mistress.  When it comes out that neither one of those things are true, are any of them going to try to… ask me about my _prospects_?”

He hummed across from her.  “That sounds about right. Me being me, and you being on my arm, nobody would try to seduce you.  And if they did, I’d be forced to deal with them.” He sounded bored. “And really, that’s why I don’t go these gatherings.  I don’t like these plebeian little plots. It’s like it’s not fun unless someone dies. Boring if it’s so planned out.”

She sighed.  “We’re going to host it, aren’t we?”  She quietly accepted that she was trapped, for the moment.  If he was to believed, it was honestly safer to be close to him than apart, where any of his… business associates could get their hands on her or Saoirse.  Better to adapt and think of another way out.

He nodded.  “Of course. Get all the kids together, let her pick the ones she likes, and ally with those families.”

Molly closed her eyes.  Saoirse, who had been hiding on the other side of the door, smiled widely.

She tiptoed back to the library, pretending to work on her long division that she’d actually finished five minutes after getting the assignment, and when her mother came in to give her a hug, she winked at her father over her shoulder.  He gave her a devilish grin and winked back.

 

* * *

 

Jim snapped his fingers at two of the guards on duty.  “I want to go for a walk.”

They wordlessly flanked him as he left the apartment.  Molly was swimming in the rooftop pool, guarded by new female muscle, and Saoirse was in her basic chemistry lesson that merged neatly into her homemade bomb studies.

The two men, Smithy and Rogers, followed him as he slid his hands into his pockets and strolled through the slushy streets.

“Both of you have children.”  He didn’t ask. He knew.

They looked at each other sharply.  “I believe so, Sir.” Rogers said cautiously.

“They’re around the same age as Saoirse, the wee one.  She’s mine, did you know?” Jim didn’t turn around.

“We didn’t want to assume, Sir, but the resemblance is striking.”  Smithy, this time.

He smiled broadly, tucking his face into his scarf.  “She _is_ a beauty, isn’t she?”  He kicked a pile of fluffy snow that had been pushed off to the side.  “Bring your children around on Sunday. 1pm.”

Both men stopped.

Moriarty went a few more steps before turning around and noticing their sweat.  “Oh, for God’s… I’m not going to kill them. There’s going to be cake. Who kills a child in front of cake?  And bouncy houses? Dear Molly has decided that Saoirse needs _normal_ friends, like an _ordinary_ child, even though she’s _mine_ and that means she’s as extraordinary as they come.  So, here, 1pm. Sunday. It’s not optional.”

After his glare at both of them, they quickly nodded and continued flanking him on his walk.

He took the longest, slushiest route possible, just to make sure their socks got as wet as his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it until next Sunday! I hope you enjoyed it.


	3. Bright Points In A Dark Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're gonna learn a lot, Molly, just remember to hold your temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, it was brought to my attention that I didn't tag some potentially triggering content in this chapter. I apologize if I've upset anyone, and I understand if you'd no longer want to read this story! There is a scene that has elements of dubcon in a really inappropriate setting, and that scene is MorMor. That is basically the only MorMor scene in this entire fic, and it didn't feel fair to have it as a tag when it's really so small. I didn't want to lead anyone on who DID want MorMor. However, it may be shocking to someone with a severe aversion to any combination of MorMor/dubcon. So to reiterate:  
> There is a scene with elements of dubcon in a really inappropriate setting in this chapter  
> That scene has implied sexual relations between Jim and Sebastian  
> ALSO: Jim has a viewpoint of his and Molly's relationship that can be considered very abusive, and his words and actions match that viewpoint. If any of this bothers you, you might want to just hold out for chapter 5 of this story.

Saoirse was the daughter of a genius psychopath, who could be considered to be one of the smartest men alive, and she took after him in more ways than made her mother comfortable, but she was still six years old.

Like any other six year old, she went simply _mad_ for bouncy houses.

Jim had found a secure location, indoors, with real sod, skylights to let in the weak winter light, and heaters.  There were ten bouncy houses for the children to run between, some with slides, some with tunnels, some just enclosed spaces for the kids to shoot themselves around like rockets.  A full high tea spread, along with a two tier strawberry sponge for the children, and enough tea to fill an Olympic swimming pool was laid out on two long tables. Jim had a festive tree put up, presents for all attendees professionally wrapped and artfully splayed on the velvet skirt underneath the fragrant branches.  As families had showed up, the pile had overflowed onto the grass.

There was also more security than at a full Parliament.

There were two armed guards for every child inside the building, three snipers set around the vicinity per family, and the area surrounding the building was practically clogged with men in dark suits, concealing pistols, revolvers, knives and the occasional machete.

At a long table set at the opposite end of the grassy pitch, a wide variety of mafioso, gangsters, professionals, and ‘opportunistic businessmen’ mingled, chatting about the weather and rising costs of exotic imports, and oh yes, wasn’t the quality of the food just excellent?  Moriarty, you know, never does things by halves, dear man, and who was that quiet little bird on his arm? The mother of his child? Oh that Moriarty, always so good at keeping his secrets.

Molly had found herself in quite a delightful conversation with the wife of a drug lord, a tall, elegant woman with a waterfall of black hair down her back and sharp green eyes that caught every detail of Molly’s expression.  They were discussing different methods to seamlessly put a sternum back into place after it breaking unexpectedly. Molly wasn’t quite sure if they were talking about a patient or a cadaver, but she found herself absorbed nonetheless.  The woman was surprisingly knowledgeable, and Molly found herself losing her nervousness as the conversation got deeper into tool selection and abnormalities in the chest cavity. Blessed familiar ground.

Jim had provided her a beautiful dress; a white a-line boatneck, embroidered with festive poinsettias at the hem, and delicate lacy slippers in a dark emerald.  He wore a dove grey suit with a white shirt and tie that matched her footwear. Saoirse wore a miniature version of her mother’s outfit, right down the necklaces he’d slipped on both of them as they were going out the door.  A monogrammed ‘M’ set inside of a magpie silhouette, hanging from thin silver chain. Something of a crest, he’d explained. Common, everyone would be wearing some sort of family affiliation, and it was important they never take it off.  Molly had seen several small emblems, such as the foxface silhouette attached to the bracelet at Christine’s wrist with the decorative ‘D’ set inside of it, subtly placed on several of the attendees. The same slim wrist with the delicate silver chain waved toward the door.

“Oh look, The Duke has brought yet another mistress to the party,” Christine sighed, gesturing to a man with white hair and a woman forty years his junior on his arm, wearing a very little dress with a great number of sequins on it.  “Four of the last five had turned out to be assassins, the poor fool is a sucker for love. And a perky arse.” Molly snorted into her tea and quickly covered her face with a napkin. Christine grinned cheekily.

“And there, the Bhai of the Indian gem world, Vikram Singh and his _delightful_ wife, Navya.” Christine waved at a short, curvaceous woman in a long black dress, embroidered in sparkling gold thread, and cut up to her hips with tight black pants under.  She had a large, gauzy black scarf draped over one shoulder, the hem lavishly embroidered in gold and encrusted with sparkling gemstones. She was on the arm of a tall, very handsome man with a neatly groomed beard, sharply cut knee-length black shirt and gold pants, a black turban wrapped neatly on his head and a ruby the size of a hen’s egg set in the center.

The woman waved back and touched her husband on the arm, whispering in his ear and flicking her long, thick black hair over her shoulder.  She floated over to Molly and Christine, holding out one hand heavy with gemstone rings in greeting, “Hello, you must be the new Lady Moriarty.  Navya Singh, very nice to meet you.” She sat elegantly in an available chair, “We’ve heard so little about you.”

Molly smiled shyly, “Thank you, I love your…” She gestured to Navya’s outfit.

Navya adjusted her scarf, smiling.  “Thank you, darling, it’s called a kurta.  Very comfortable, traditional party wear in India.”  She leaned in, “Maybe I’ll take you shopping some time.”  Molly blushed and shared Navya’s smile.

Christine turned to Navya, eyes sparkling, “Miss Hooper is a _pathologist_ , isn’t that terribly interesting?”

She turned surprised eyes, large and dark, on Molly, “Oh, a doctor?  I… didn’t expect someone so educated to catch Mr. Moriarty’s interest.  He’s always been so attracted to… cruder methods.”

Molly tilted her head, but just then, an adorable little boy with a perfect little topknot, wearing his own sharp black shirt and golden pants, ran up and tugged on a handful of Navya’s silky hair.  She winced, gathering it and holding it gently away from his little hands. “What is it, Idris?”

Molly smiled at the little boy, he was maybe a year younger than Saoirse.

He pulled on her hand, “I need a ruby!”

Navya rolled her eyes, “No, Idris, why would you need a ruby at the party?”

“I want to give it to the pretty girl I’m going to marry!”  He pointed with one chubby finger to… Saoirse. She was looking over and waved when he pointed at her.  He waved back and his chubby cheeks darkened a little.

Molly laughed out loud and Navya took his hand.  “How about you introduce me to the lady who has stolen your heart, Beta.” She turned back to Christine and Molly, “Give me one moment, my friends.”

She unfolded herself from the chair and the little boy lead her over to the group of children.

Molly looked back at Christine and almost flinched backwards.  She had a look on her face like a cat that had caught a sparrow, but hadn’t quite killed it.

“So,” Christine purred, “Do tell.  How did you ever get to snag the most handsome man in the business?  We are all put out at the lack of wedding invitations.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Molly’s bare fingers.  She took a sip of her tea and leaned her head on her hand, looking for all the world like a schoolgirl about to deal some juicy gossip.

_Crap._ She’d known this was coming but just hadn’t thought of a satisfactory answer.  “We… aren’t together.” She pulled her hands below the table and looked over to where Jim was sitting silently at the head of the table, fingers steepled under his chin as he surveyed the crowd.  His face was very blank. He sat next to Navya’s husband and a woman with a sharp face and even sharper white suit.

Christine clucked her tongue and sat back in the garden chair.  “That’s patently untrue, darling. You do not wear a ring,” she flashed her own 5 carat princess cut sapphire surrounded by a galaxy of diamonds, “but you belong to his family all the same.  You bore his child, you wear his sigil, whether or not you share his bed at the moment is immaterial. He’s displaying you as his own, and I’m interested in how you got to this point. We all thought Sebastian would wind up in your seat at some point,” Molly almost dropped her teacup in surprise, “but it’s a well known fact that Jim doesn’t dally with just anyone.  There must be something extraordinarily special about you.”

“I’m sorry, can you go back- Sebastian?  Bodyguard Sebastian?” Her eyes flicked over to where the bodyguard was standing ten feet behind Jim, rifle at the ready.

Christine furrowed her brow, “Of course, darling.  It’s a known fact that Sebastian Moran belongs to Jim Moriarty in more ways than one.  Dear Jim isn’t shy with his affection, and we’ve all heard the obscene noises they’ve made at each gathering.”  Molly felt like her eyebrows were about to fly off of her forehead. Learning that the father of her child was bisexual was the _last_ thing she thought would happen at this party.  “He always does it in private, for the sake of the children, but they can’t keep their hands off each other.”  She raised her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. “You… didn’t know.”

Molly shook her head, face slightly ashen.  “It’s true we’ve been living at his- I haven’t heard anything, or even seen any hint...”

Christine gave her a wicked grin, “Where does Sebastian sleep at night, dear Molly?”

The sound of a lock sliding home thundered through her head, that first day when Sebastian had followed Jim silently into his room.

Oh my.

She turned and watched as Sebastian leaned close and whispered into Jim’s ear.  She blushed at the way Jim turned his head, cheek barely brushing Sebastian’s jaw, and the familiar tilt of it, almost as if he was expecting a kiss.  And when Jim reached up to pet Sebastian condescendingly on the jaw, did his hand linger a shade too long to be anything but a gesture of affection?

“What do you think they do at night?” Christine’s lips were close to the shell of her ear.  Her voice was low, pitched for Molly alone. “Does Sebastian ride dear Jim? Push him down and take him?  I’ve never seen him bottom, but if Sebastian has been jealous since you came...” Those bright red lips nipped Molly’s ear, but she didn’t react.  Her eyes were glued to Jim’s hand, where it caressed the strong curve of Sebastian’s jaw. “Or does Jim bend him over the bed and-” Christine’s manicured hand slid up Molly’s thigh and she jumped up, fumbling backwards.  Christine’s satisfied expression went unnoticed as she looked around wildly. Everyone was staring and she-

“I, um, I have to go to the- I have to go.”  Saoirse had paused in her play, eyes trained to her mother, and Molly quickly strode over.  Navya, having been pulled somewhere else by her son, watching Molly with sharp eyes. “Saoirse, come with me.  I have to fix your hair.”

Saoirse complied quietly, falling into step beside her mother.

Molly rushed them through the nearest double doors, Severin following them like a silent shadow.  Molly went to blindly open the first door she came across, but Severin’s arm shot out and held the handle. He gave her a look of concern, and murmured, “Let me sweep it first, Miss Hooper.”

He unholstered his gun and flicked the safety off, keeping it pointed at the ground as he slipped inside the room.  The door shut softly behind him, and Molly gripped Saoirse’s hand while she heard the gentle rustling of paper products and cardboard boxes.

“Mum, are you ok?”  Saoirse’s quiet voice, soft and soothing, “You’re shaking.”

Molly reached up to rub her eyes.  Saoirse had always been good, so good, at pacification.  Calming people down. Severin opened the door, nodding his head that it was safe.

Molly pushed Saoirse ahead of her, gladly taking refuge in the supply closet.

Severin stood in front of the door while Molly all but collapsed on a stack of boxes. She held her head in her hand for a minute, careful of her hairstyle.  “Oh Saoirse, I’m… this is so new. It’s so new and it’s not like with children, darling, I can’t afford as many mistakes as I’m making, it’s not so easy for adults to look past transgressions…”

Saoirse sat next to her mother and gave her a hug.  “It’s okay, Mama.”

Molly gave a shaky breath before looking up, “Are _you_ having fun, Sugar Cube?”

Saoirse’s face split in a wide, happy smile, “Oh _yes!_ I’m making so many new friends already.  One of them, Charlotte, she said you were talking to her mom and that means we might get to see each other more often!  And then Idris, he’s so _cool_ , his mom came over to say hi to you, his dad is the one in the turban, the black one.  Idris said his dad owns the largest gem mines in India, and he said he was going to give me a ruby the size of my eye.”  Saoirse giggled, all pale skin and long black hair and shining eyes, and Molly was struck by the idea that Saoirse was going to be _courted_ by the sons of the men in this room.

She locked eyes with Severin, who shrugged and said, “She’s the bosses daughter.  She’ll be… protected. She’ll learn how to handle the rest from the boss.”

Molly felt weak.  “This is real, isn’t it?  This is happening. There is no going back.”  Her eyes glazed over and she felt panic start to bloom in her chest.  “I can’t ever leave, can I? This… this is forever.”

She felt Saoirse’s small arms encircle her in a hug, and then something very unexpected.  Severin had come over, with a sad, understanding look on his face, and he very gently drew her into an embrace.  Quietly, “When Jim Moriarty decides to keep someone, they stay. You gave him an heir, Molly Hooper. I hope you don’t come to regret it.”

He held her like one might hold an injured bird; carefully, with both hands loosely cupped around her, conscious of the fact he could crush her at any moment.  Saoirse wiggled her way in, and they shared a moment of quiet together.

“You’re not alone.  Seb and I, we’re part of this.  He won’t ever discharge us. Well, not in any way that doesn’t involve a body bag.  We’ll always be there.”

She nodded shakily, pulling Saoirse into her lap as Severin withdrew to a respectful distance.  “How… how am I doing?”

He winced a little and shrugged.  “Not… bad. I was surprised he called a gathering so soon, and without preparing you first.  Boss probably wanted to see you suffer.”

Molly muttered, “As if I would give him the satisfaction.”

He gave her a small, genuine grin, “Then let’s go over what you’ve done.  You’ve been spending a lot of time on the arm of Christine. She’s good, important, and her family desperately wants to align with ours.  She’s a terrible flirt, as you’ve noticed, and her wife tolerates it. Horrid gossip, too, and you’re probably the best present she’s going to get this Christmas.  You’re so bad at playing the game.” Severin smiled at her to soften the blow. “I saw that Mrs. Singh came to pay her respects, that’s very good. Bhai is very powerful, Boss has been working slowly at an alliance for years.  You didn’t get a chance to say much, I saw. That’s… probably for the best.”

“I know.  I’ve never been very popular.  Never been very good at talking to people.”  She ran her hand over Saoirse’s hair. “You, poppet, have been spectacular.  Everyone seems to like you, I’ve noticed.”

Saoirse smiled, “Thanks, Mama.  And I like you. You aren’t bad at talking to me.”  She kissed Molly on the cheek. Severin’s eyes softened at the display.

“You have to look like you’re supporting Jim.  Don’t yell at him, don’t say anything overtly negative about him, don’t do anything that looks like you’re threatening his position as head of the household.  These people are _sharks_ , Molly Hooper, and they can scent the smallest drop of blood in this ocean.  Houses that don’t stand together get torn apart in the fray.” Severin ran his hand over his face.  “It’s abnormally sloppy of him to bring you here without any preparation. I can’t think of why he’d do it, unless he wanted to kill you afterward.”  At Saoirse’s gasp, he looked up, panicked, “But he wouldn’t, of course not, you’re Saoirse’s mother and he just adores her. I just… it’s so out of character.  I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

Molly got a strange look on her face, eyes flicking to Saoirse, and then she motioned for Severin to come closer.  She leaned up and whispered in his ear, “Is it true that Jim and Sebastian are sleeping together?”

Severin leaned back and sighed.  “Yeah, that part is true, and it’s an open secret.  They’re… not _together_ , but Jim…”  He rubbed anxiously at his jaw.  “It’s complicated, and it has to do with how Seb and I came to work for him.  I’ll leave the long story for later, but Seb and I have a…” He flicked his eyes down to Saoirse, who was listening with rapt attention.  “We have a kind of contract. Until Jim releases us, we’re basically his possessions. He can do what he wants, when he wants. Seb wants it, wants him, and I don’t.  So Seb gets to be… in that place and I’m allowed to not.” He rushed to add, “Boss would KILL me if he knew I was telling you any of this, so you have to swear not to tell him.   _Either_ of you.”  He held out his pinky and looked Saoirse in the eye.  “Pinky promise.”

Saoirse wrapped her tiny pinky around his large one, as much as she could, and mimed locking her mouth and throwing the key over her shoulder.  “Pinky promise,” she whispered.

Molly did the same pinky promise and then ran a hand through her hair.  “Sev, can you take her back to the party? I need a minute to absorb… everything.”

He gave her a long look and nodded, taking Saoirse by the hand and helping her get her footing.  Molly kissed Saoirse on the forehead and straightened her hair. “Have fun, darling, and I’ll be there in time for cake and presents, okay?”

“Okay, Mama.  Feel better.” Saoirse reached up on tiptoe to kiss her mother on the cheek.

They walked out together, Molly hearing Saoirse’s shoes break into a run as she challenged Severin to a race.

She sighed and leaned back against the boxes.  How was she going to do this?

She sat silently, curled into a ball in the back of the storage closet, for about a quarter of an hour before shaking herself and slowly standing up.  She couldn’t here the whole party, that would be even more humiliating, to run away.

She leaned behind a shelf for a minute, just to give herself one last moment of peace, when she heard the door swing open and hit the wall.  She froze instantly, oh _shit,_ she was so stupid to go _anywhere_ without security, that could be anyone, a murderer, a member of another house come to slit her throat, what was it Jim had said?   _“And really, that’s why I don’t go these gatherings.  I don’t like these plebeian little plots. It’s like it’s not fun unless someone dies.  Boring if it’s so planned out.”_

The words echoed through her head, filling her veins with adrenaline, when-

“C’mon Boss, it’s been _weeks_ , you know that I-”  A wet sound, like a sloppy kiss, and fabric rustling.

“Has Dear Jim been neglecting you, Sebby?  Fatherhood has really been occupying my mind lately, let me see what I can do to make it up to you.”  Jim’s voice was deep, seductive, his Irish lilt more pronounced and Molly felt furiously cold and blindingly hot.

Was Moriarty really about to fuck his bodyguard in a broom closet at his daughter’s party?

She wished harder for a gun now than she had when she thought it was someone come to kill her.

She slowly peered around the corner to see Jim and Sebastian kissing roughly, Jim’s hands yanking on his belt buckle, and Molly felt a calm wash over her. She was angry, furious, rage-filled, but absolutely in control of herself.  How dare he. At Saoirse’s party.

How _dare_ he.

She clasped her hands loosely in front of her, taking a few quiet steps forward, her cold, quiet whisper echoing across the little room. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jim and Sebastian’s heads both whipped around to stare at her, like she was ghost come haunting them from the back of the broom closet.  Sebastian’s hand was on his revolver, but Jim’s slapped down on it, preventing him from drawing it. “How very stupid of you,” he panted, “to sneak up on someone like Sebby.”

Sebastian froze, looking between Jim and Molly, like he was wondering which one he should be more afraid of.

Molly snapped at him, “Go guard Saoirse.” She gestured toward the door, “I’d like to have a few words with your boss.”  She paused, then added through gritted teeth, “Please.”

Jim tilted his head at an almost inhuman angle.  He gave her his most unfriendly smile, making a show of zipping up Sebastian’s pants and re-buckling his belt.  “You heard my lady, Sebby. Go guard my own.”

Sebastian looked taken aback, like he’d honestly expected Jim to dismiss Molly, and it took Jim swinging his head around to glare at him, “Problem, Moran?” before he shook his head and stomped his way out of the room.

“He’ll pay for that tantrum later,” Jim muttered, watching Sebastian’s ass as he stormed away.

Molly grabbed the first object to her left, a covered roll of toilet paper, and chucked it at Jim’s head with as much force as she could muster.  He knocked it away almost lazily with his forearm before turning his head to regard her blankly.

She was so angry her hands were shaking, she was startled to realize.

“You,” he said quietly, “need to be very careful with how you talk to me.”  He took slow, ponderous steps toward her.

“Shut up,” was her immediate reply.  She didn’t even flinch at his raised brow and the slow rake of his eyes down her body.  She steadied herself with a deep breath, “I don’t care about the veiled insult to me, nobody even knew you slept with women, apparently, but I will absolutely not tolerate this kind of humiliation of Saoirse.”

He stopped in his tracks, brow furrowed.  “Wh-”

“It’s a _party_ for _her_ so she can make _friends_ , you completely defective _toad_.”  Molly was practically shouting at this point.  “You think I care, _at all_ , about what happens in your bedroom?  I’m not a part of that and I don’t want to be.  But absolutely, under no circumstances, do this kind of shit in the same public area as Saoirse again.  If you’re gay, Jim, then that’s _fine._  If you want Sebastian to be your… husband, boyfriend, whatever this is, then just _do it_.  Just be _clear_ , Jim.  You’re presenting me in a way some of these people were _sure_ Sebastian was lined up for.  There’s connotations, Jim, that don’t look good when you’re doing… ” she gestured at the room, “When you’re doing this.  You… This is part of being a parent, Jim, since you’re so keen on the idea. You have to treat the people close to you _always_ with an idea of how Saoirse is going to take it.  If you want to be in a relationship with Sebastian, that’s fine, but _make_ it a relationship.”  Molly closed her eyes, “Make it a better example than that one you and I are setting for her.”

She touched her hand to her temple, studying the growing rage in his expression, “Am I really a ‘pressure point’, Jim?  Or just a possession? Would anyone taking me really ‘get to you’? Somehow, I doubt it. You’ve got Saoirse, what use am I now?” She threw his words back in his face.

He took a deep breath in and opened his mouth, but Molly cut him off, “Not here.  You want to do this, we’ll do it back at _home_.  I’ve promised _my daughter_ that I’d be back in there for cake and presents.”  She raked her eyes over his form, “Your fly is down.  One of us has to be an _adult._ ”  She lowered eyes, concentrating on his shoes.  “I’m going back to the party. You do what you want.”

She pushed past him and put her hand on the handle, pulling it open, when Jim rushed up behind her, slamming the door shut and pinning her against it with his body.  “Are you jealous, Molly Hooper?” His hips pressed into her soft bottom through the dress. “Want a turn with Dear Jim?”

She growled, “Let me go.  Right now. Take your hands _off of me_.”  She pressed back against him violently, trying to buck him off of her.  He didn’t give an inch.

His lips traced her ear, “I don’t see why I can’t have you both.  You both live in my house, under my rules, and under my protection.” He bit her earlobe, dragging it through his teeth.  “I don’t see why I can’t have you at the same time, now that I think about it…”

“Is that supposed to be a threat or an invitation?”  Molly’s voice was tight with fury. It was like he hadn’t heard a _single_ word she’d said.  What else could she expect from Jim Moriarty, she thought wearily.

He chuckled, vibrations coursing through her, “Which one is more exciting?”

She turned her head to look at him and said the words that she knew she’d probably regret later, “No thanks.  I’ve had Sherlock, remember? I have such high standards now, don’t want to be _disappointed_.”  She gave him her own sharp grin as he froze.  He was looking at her, reassessing, like this was a brand new person in front of him and he didn’t know quite how to handle her.  The reaction was not what he expected.

She stepped neatly out of the cage of his arms and opened the door just enough for her to slip into the hall.

When she was back in the main arena, she noticed the sparkle on Christine’s face and  made the last minute decision to sit in Jim’s chair. At the head of the table.

If she was going to step on his toes, she might as well break them.

She sat smoothly in his more ornate, comfortable seat and heard Severin take in a deep breath when she did.  She smiled at Navya and her husband, who were on her left, and Navya gave a throaty chuckle and lifted her tea in salute.  Christine’s eyes never left her face, and when Molly’s eyes slid over her direction, she gave a very flirty wink. Deciding to play along, Molly gave a wink back and smiled, picking up Jim’s teacup and holding it up to her lips.

She didn’t drink it, though.  If she was going to poison anyone in this building, it would absolutely be Jim Moriarty.  Better to be safe.

The man himself entered through the doors quietly and stalked over, his face a smooth mask and his fly in place.  Everyone was having bright conversations, but their attention was fixed firmly on this little drama. Even more delightful than murder, apparently.

She straightened her spine and smiled sweetly.  “Did you have fun, Jim?”

His teeth were _sharp_ as he smiled back, “Oh, more than I’ve had in years.”

He snapped his fingers and the chair next to Molly opened up, Jim’s eyes never leaving her face.  He sank down into it and gave her one last lingering look, his eyes sliding away as he demanded conversation from woman in white next to him.

A teacup was set gently at her elbow, milk and two sugars.  Severin tilted his chin in acknowledgement of her quiet thanks as she took the strong black tea and breathed in the fragrant steam.  Molly closed her eyes and took one heavenly sip. Jim gave an annoyed sound and there was a rustling of fabric. Molly opened her eyes a little to see Jim leaning back, Christine having sat in the woman’s lap and leaning in, invading his space.  Christine leaned over Jim, looking at Molly.

“Miss Molly, meet my wife.  Danica, this is Molly Hooper, Jim’s…”  She flicked her gaze over to Jim, who was making an art out of ignoring them.  “Well, I think it’s fair to just say that she’s Jim’s.” Christine crossed one leg over the other and Molly couldn’t help the flick her eye to the smooth expanse of thigh that flashed.  Christine giggled, leaning in, “Well, in name. In practice…”

A fork stuck itself in the table, centimeters from where Christine’s hand had been sliding to Molly’s.

Jim’s smile was knife-sharp and his eyes were flat.  “She’s mine. That’s all there is to it. So if you want to have an orgy, you have to invite us _both._ ”

Navya tried to cover her laugh with a cough, her husband looking at the skylights while he patted her on the back.

Christine slowly retracted her hand.  Danica was glaring at Jim. “Careful, Moriarty, I’m fond of her hands.”  She lifted Christine’s hand to her thin lips and kissed the back of it. Jim ran his tongue over one of his incisors and lifted one corner of his mouth in a smirk.  Molly took another sip of tea. Danica’s surprisingly husky voice murmured, “If you won’t take care of your possessions, don’t be surprised if they wind up in the hands of someone who will.”

Jim’s face got very unpleasant.  He looked at Molly, who schooled her face into what she hoped was a neutral expression.  “I plan on taking _care_ of her.”  He reached over and gripped her hand, too tight to be comfortable.  “All night, if that’s what it takes.” Molly tried very hard to not think about what that hand had been doing less than an hour ago.

Navya interjected smoothly, “Molly, have you met my husband?  Vikram, this is Molly Hooper. Molly, this is Vikram.” Jim snarled and held her hand tighter, Vikram making a point to lay his hand gently on his wife’s.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Hooper.”  His voice was smooth and deep, and Molly murmured her polite responses while Jim tried to get her attention back by _breaking her fingers my GOD_.

Wrestling her hand back, Molly set down her teacup and brightly said, “I think it’s time for the children to eat.”

She stood smoothly, Jim following suit.  At his glare, the rest of the families scrambled up as well.  Molly clapped her hands loudly, cupping them around her mouth, and shouted, “Time for cake!”  She’d been at a few birthday parties, and she found the less genteel ways of gathering the attention of a large group of children the most effective.

Christine and Navya exchanged amused glances, Christine murmuring, “So charming.”  Navya hummed in agreement.

As the children ran up, Molly found a soft, pleased smile making it’s way on her face.  Saoirse looked so happy, her hair wild and her eyes bright. She was running next to a small blonde girl and Navya’s boy, Idris.  As she watched, a girl with a head full of long braids joined them. She turned to Jim, who was watching Saoirse just as closely as her, and murmured, “Thank you.  For this.” He shot her a wary look, on edge at her sudden softness. “I mean it. It’s good to see her smile again.” Jim didn’t respond, but he did incline his head.

A small fleet of staff set up the children’s table, slicing cake and putting it on delicate China plates, pouring cups of milk or tea.  The kids organized themselves, and Saoirse took the head of the table like she belonged there.

Jim’s face filled with a dangerous pride, and he leaned over to Molly, “You’ve done well.”

“I’m sorry?”  Molly was watching Saoirse interact with the other kids, the ones closest to her erupting into laughter at whatever she’d just said.

“Saoirse.  She’s polite, quick on her feet, and she’s only tried to stab me once.  Nice work.”

Molly groaned, pinching the bridge of her brow.  “The knife thing has to come from your side. I did NOT teach her that.”

Jim shrugged, “Then I will.”  He smiled wistfully, “Family bonding, takes me back to my childhood.  Ah, The Troubles were such an… educational time.”

Molly turned back to the table, where most of the adults had re-seated themselves.  She slid back into Jim’s chair. “No. No knives.”

Jim reclaimed his seat at her side, “I’m her father and-”

Molly snapped, “No, you’re not.”

The rest of the table got silent.  Christine, who had claimed the seat next to Danica, lost her smile.  Navya and Vikram looked grave. Jim’s looked her up and down, face like ice.  Cold, and about to crack. “What? Look at her face, Molly Hooper, and try to tell me if she belongs to anyone else.”

Saoirse smiled at something the girl next to her said, and it was a perfect replica of Jim’s.

“What?  No, you’re her- You sired her, of course.”  The table let loose a collective sigh of relief.  There had been a confirmed account of a father finding out about a false paternity at a gathering a few years ago and the results had been, well... that family was no longer in Europe.  Molly waved her hand impatiently. “I mean you’re not her _father._  You weren’t there, Jim, you just shot yourself in the head and went on your merry way.   _I_ raised her, on my own, and you-”

Jim had leaned in closer and pressed his lips to hers, swallowing the rest of her sentence.  He angled his head and she gasped sharply, Jim sliding his tongue in her mouth, licking her, like he wanted to eat the words she’d been about to say.  When he pulled back, he touched her chin with his index finger, a gesture from a lifetime ago, and whispered, “Later. At home.”

Without thinking, she whispered back, “Sherlock was more of a father to her than you.”  Jim’s touch became bruising, and his face grew dark with anger. Molly didn’t feel afraid.  It was true. Sherlock had helped her when she started to read, and when she got curious about the sciences, had even taught her to play a few notes on his violin.  He’d been so wary, had murmured that the Moriarty genes would out, of course they would, and Molly had fiercely defended her daughter even as she twined her arms around his neck and let his hips lay between her thighs.  Even after their fight, he’d been… interested in Saoirse’s academical progress from afar.

Jim made several shapes with his mouth, like he was tasting different words, different levels of anger, and he settled on a smile that exposed all of his dangerous teeth.  “Not here.” It came out as a hiss, would have been just as home in the mouth of a snake. Jim’s eyes darted down the table, where everyone was doing a very good job of pretending that they weren’t listening intently.  Severin locked eyes with Molly and looked grim. He gave his head a discreet shake.

Molly pushed down her blush, of course she would have done this in the company of his colleagues, when an angel in couture came to her rescue.  Christine and Danica had decided to take pity on the Moriarty family and signal to the rest that it was time to go.

“Molly, darling, it was wonderful to meet you.”  Christine pressed a kiss to her cheekbone that lingered.  She looked at Moriarty from over Molly’s shoulder, “Moriarty.  Until next time.”

Danica smoothed a hand up her wife’s back and nodded to both of them, murmuring pleasantries.  Danica leaned in to whisper something in Jim’s ear, and he nodded sharply. “Dinner first week of January, then, we can discuss that after.”

Christine sent Molly a wink.

They collected their daughter, a dark child with long braids named Charlotte, and began the procession of the families to the tree.  Saoirse took a great amount of joy in handing out the presents, Molly hovering to help her out. Jim stood closer to the door to shake hands and nod, exchanging pleasantries and compliments on the newest members of his household.

Navya embraced Molly and Vikram gave a friendly nod, Idris kissing Saoirse’s hand and everyone laughing.  When they said their goodbyes to Jim, Vikram flicked his eyes between Molly and Jim silently, kissing the back of Navya’s hand pointedly, running his hands over the gems covering her fingers.  Jim and Vikram held eye contact for longer than was comfortable, before they took their leave.

He received an envelope from each family.  He expected them to contain letters detailing the advantages of a match between Saoirse and whatever offspring they had to offer, but would be surprised to find half of them containing inquiries about the availability of Molly Hooper.

She’d made an impression, and it was that she was not caught firmly in Jim’s grip.  One of the men, older, powerful, one of the prime bosses in Europe, gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, leaned in and said low in his throat, “Keep your house in order, Moriarty.  You never know who might be watching. Looking for a weakness.” They both looked over to the bright tree, where the children were socializing happily.

His daughter, a happy little thing with long red hair, was hugging Saoirse as she was handed her gift.  What a pity she’d never see the twee thing again.

Jim gave a single nod and the man squeezed his shoulder.

He was going to murder Molly Hooper, and then himself.  He thought putting her in this situation would be _funny_.  He remembered the Molly Hooper from before, and he hadn’t really counted on her spine being so much stronger this time around.  He wondered spitefully which corpse she’d pulled it out of, because she seemed to have installed it a little _crooked_.  Sure, she’d demanded bags of heads, but was that normal for someone who worked with bodies?  He’d assumed so. He had expected her to be nervous, make bland small talk, spill the tea on her delightfully white dress he’d supplied, and then beg him not to make her do this again.

Now, in a single afternoon, she’d gone and made herself _interesting._  He’d been threatened before sex, of course, but never by someone without a weapon, without any kind of credible threat.  Just the force of her anger. She’d gathered the attention of the people he’d been working for _years_ to be friendly with, and now he damn well had a pocket full of letters from people asking for her _hand_.  She’d usurped his seat, his throne, and had created a strange dynamic between them and every other organization he had to deal with that he wanted to choke.  Motherhood had forged a completely different Molly Hooper than he expected.

He found himself not hating it.

He wasn’t sure what Molly Hooper meant to him.  She was his, absolutely, but was she more? Was she his public half, his softer side?  Interfacing with the other families in intricate alliances depended so much on personal relationships, it was boring and exhausting and he hadn’t bothered to do it before now.  Molly had done a remarkable job today, and it both surprised and aroused him.

He assumed they’d sleep together again, because they had before and it had been… interesting.  Good, yes, but also some unexpectedly pleasant reactions. She’d been remarkably resistant to the idea so far, and he wasn’t very clear on her current relationship with the consulting detective.  It didn’t really matter, either way, because she was his to use or not as he pleased. Not quite the same way as Sebastian and Severin, slightly less murdery, but close enough. Really, she and Sebby aligned pretty closely in what he wanted to use them for.  He lost himself for a second in a vague fantasy of having them both in his bed, pliant and submissive below him. He shook his head in time to nod respectfully to another family.

And then there was Saoirse.

Saoirse was… so alike himself as a child, and yet completely different.  She had the same intelligence, a wonderful eye for plots and strategy, but she had a lightness to her, a sweetness.  A bit of Molly mixed in to his darkness. She wouldn’t have drowned Carl Powers, she would have befriended him and _ruined his fucking life_.  The possibilities made Jim titter.

He felt a strange urge to sweep her into his arms and never let her go.

Curious.

He tapped his foot impatiently as the rest of the families slowly filtered out.  He nodded to Smithy and Rogers, who had been quietly in the background for the entire affair.  They’d be more comfortable with the other guards, and Saoirse had played with each of their children in turn.  He made a mental note to have them bring their kids over in a few weeks, and to give them a bonus for the holidays.

He felt warm and tight, he was uncomfortably aware that he had opened himself up to so many weaknesses.  So many pressure points. Molly and Saoirse, too unpredictable, too many ways he could be compromised. He all but owned Sebastian and Severin, he could count their rhythms like clockwork.  He knew they would do what he said, when he said, without question.

He saw Severin slowly sliding his allegiance to Saoirse, and it made him want to beat the larger man’s head in with a brick and yet shower him with riches at the same time.  Severin wasn’t supposed to think, to observe, to decide. He didn’t belong to Saoirse, he _belonged_ to Jim Moriarty.  Anyone not bound to him, mind and body, was a risk.  He couldn’t afford risks. Nobody ever got to him. He’d kill all of them, if he had to, before he let someone get to him.

As the last family collected their security detail and filtered out of the arena, the rest of the food being cleaned and the presents being loaded into a van to be taken to the flat, he barked, “Sebastian, with me.  Severin, with them.” He gestured roughly at Molly and Saoirse, who had gone still and quiet at his sudden mood, and violently grabbed Sebastian by the collar, dragging him out of the space.

As soon as they were in the car, Jim shoved him belly down on the black leather bench seat, unbuckling his pants with shaking hands.  “You were _uppity,_  Sebby,” he snarled.  To the driver, he bit out, “Take the long way back.”

 

* * *

 

Severin lead Molly and Saoirse out of the building quietly, opening the doors just as the first black town car whipped away around the corner.  Saoirse whispered, “Did I do something wrong?”

Severin answered before Molly could, “No.  You didn’t do anything wrong.” He was glaring after the car.  He turned and looked down at Saoirse. “Boss is… He doesn’t deal well with a lot of emotion.  You two have tipped his little world right on it’s head. He’s going to be uncomfortable for awhile, I think.”  He smiled down at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Saoirse reached out to delicately take his free hand, her other one twining with Molly’s.  “Can… can we get ice cream?” She asked hopefully.

Molly’s eyes softened.  “Sure, sweetheart. There’s a spot around the corner.”

Severin cleared his throat and said, “If we’re back too late, Boss will be suspicious.  He…” He was quiet for a minute as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “We should probably just head back,” he offered lamely.

Saoirse’s face fell and Molly frowned, but didn’t protest.

They quietly loaded into the back of the car, Severin settling himself in last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand there that is. I hope you enjoyed it, please leave a note and I'll see you next Sunday!


	4. Fight or Flight or...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defend yourself, Molly Hooper, nobody is going to do it for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There is a scene of domestic violence in this chapter between Jim and Molly (it really swings both ways, tbh) and if you want to skip it, search for the phrase "A week slid by..." and that will take you past the violence.

Saoirse had gone straight to her room and closed the door, mumbling to Molly that she needed quiet time.  Molly had pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her by her ear, whispering how proud she was and how well she had done before letting her go.

It had been another half hour before Jim practically kicked open the double doors to the flat, sing-songing, “Honey, I’m hooome!”

Molly set down the book she’d been staring at and stood up, folding her arms.  “Jim.”

“ _Molly_.”  His grin was sharp, too sharp, and Sebastian wore a strange, pinched expression when he crossed the threshold after him.  Jim strode towards her, “Let’s have a _talk_ , shall we?”  His face was dark, even as his grin split wider, nastier, and he herded her backwards towards his room.  Molly let him, her face growing dark and stormy as his. The colliding of two perfect storms. _He couldn’t wait_. “Sevvie, keep my own company and make sure she stays in her room.  Sebby, you go take a shower.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Jim whipped his tie off and slammed the door behind them, the lock sliding in place after.

The first thing he did was pick Molly up and toss her onto the bed, like she was a sack of flour.  “You, Miss Hooper, have been a _very bad girl_.”  He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, halfway down his chest.

Molly used the momentum of her bounce to hop off of the other side of the enormous bed and hissed at him, “What are you _doing_?”

He stalked her around the room, “You’re mine, did you forget that?  You do what I say, when I say. And what I’m telling you to do now-”  He reached for her arm, and then she really surprised him.

Molly balled up her fist, tucked her thumb inside, and _slammed_ it into his zygomatic arch.  She felt the hit connect as Moriarty’s head snapped back, his cheekbone blooming an angry red that would probably fade to a lurid purple in the next few hours.  Sally Donovan had given Saoirse, and by extension her, lessons on self defense. It had included the best places to punch someone in the face, and while the zygomatic arch was _not_ on that list, Molly had seen the inside of enough skulls to long to break the delicate line of bone in Jim’s smug, stupid face.  He might have a hairline fracture, but it wasn’t the satisfying crunch of a broken bone that she would have preferred. Still, the sensation was incredibly pleasing.

He covered his face with one hand while she caressed her throbbing knuckles.  “What were you going to tell me to do?” She asked breathlessly, her eyes narrowed.  She shook out her fist and brought both of them up in a defensive stance.

He gave her another frightening grin and ran his tongue over his incisors.  “Did you want to dance, little bird?” She snarled and he laughed. He was unhinged, unpredictable, and Molly had both longed for and feared the confrontation with the Jim that would surface when she refused to submit to his controlling hand.  Instantly, she knew she wasn’t nearly prepared enough.

He rushed her, ducking her next wild swing and catching her around the torso, slamming her up against the wall.  She gasped as his shoulder hit her in the solar plexus, stunning her. He grabbed her by the throat, fingers digging into her airway as he leaned in and hissed into her ear, “Is it not fun anymore, Mollykins?”  He buried his nose behind her ear, tongue darting out to catch a bead of sweat, “Or is it a little too _arousing_?  Do you like it _rough_?”

She was gasping as his fingers pressed in on her even sharper, her hands weakly pushing his head away.  She couldn’t do anything, he had her pinned in a way that left her legs useless, her hands trying unsuccessfully to unlock his from around her neck, her vision started to go spotty and she wheezed out, “ _I yield_.”

He gave the darkest laugh she had ever heard.  Cold, mocking and not entirely human. “You think we’re sparring?  You forgot who I am, my _love_ ,” his hands tightened just a fraction further, “and you need to start remembering.”

He held on for another beat, looking at her bright red face and glassy eyes, before he let go of her throat and stepped back, letting her fall to the carpet in a heap.

She was coughing, choking, and he casually poured her a glass of water from the decanter at his bedside.  “Don’t forget, Molly, that you started that. Whatever you start, I’ll finish.” He walked back over to her.  He looked at her for a second, considering, then he knelt down and held out the half filled glass. “You’re not good enough to play the games you tried to play today, in the bedroom or the arena.  You can try, and you’ll fail.” She looked at him with hate and fear in equal measure, but she took the glass and started to sip. “If you want to, you’ll get there one day. You’ll beat me, but I won’t lay down and lose on purpose.”

“Are you,” she rasped, “going to… force me?”

Jim wrinkled his nose, “No, not my style.  Boring.” He gave her another wicked grin, standing smoothly, “Trust me, you’ll beg for it eventually.”  He cocked his head boyishly to the side like he hadn’t just tried to crush her trachea. “They always do.”

She gave him a look that said ‘not bloody likely’.  He chuckled, then opened the door and strode out, waving over his shoulder.  “Til next time, Molly Hooper!”

 

* * *

 

A week slid by, Christmas looming around the corner, and Jim hadn’t heard a peep out of Molly or Saoirse.  He’d given Severin a long stare as he’d come out of the bedroom, a warning to remember his place, even as Severin’s eyes lingered on his bruised cheek.  After his little demonstration, the entire household seemed to be giving him a wide berth, even Sebby. He should be happy about that. He should have smiled at the fact that Molly had worn turtlenecks every day this week and had only looked him in the eye once, with a spark of anger, before deliberately turning away.

He should have been pleased.

Instead, he felt strange.  He felt off balance, off kilter, and couldn’t stop remembering the look on her face when he’d refused to yield with disgust instead of satisfaction.  A small part of him whispered that these were people, not things, and they were too bright and beautiful to destroy, to force into submission. That he should long for Molly to look at him with the same softness as she did Saoirse.  His own childhood… Well, his mother had never looked at him with the same degree of love and devotion. He wondered, staring blankly at his phone, what it would be like to be loved like that. What it would be like to freely embrace both of them, and fully integrate himself as a member of their family that they loved instead of feared.

What it would be like to have a willing Molly Hooper warming his bed every night, to have her reach for him greedily when he slipped between the sheets.

Would it get boring, the domesticity?  Or would it be something entirely new? He imagined Saoirse as a teenager plotting to overthrow a small government, crossly refusing his help, but sharing his office and bouncing ideas back and forth.  Molly, bless her, reclining in front of the fireplace, writing an article for an international scientific journal. She’d have nothing but the top of the line private laboratory, procured and freely given by Jim himself, to conduct whatever research she desired.  He and Saoirse could provide plenty of bodies.

Molly hosting a dinner party so he could conduct business, Navya complimenting her on her engagement ring and the other men giving him dignified congratulations.

Vikram, running his thumb over Navya’s fingers so gently while he kissed the back of her hand.  Gentle. Cherished.

Loved.

He’d never really belonged in a family unit, he realized bleakly, and it was far more likely that Saoirse would kill him to usurp his place before she’d share his office and his plots.  The Moriarty genes tended to lean towards patricide. He should know, after all.

He was in the middle of texting, trying to arrange last minute Christmas presents for his household when it happened.

He was on his second cup of tea and he dropped his phone.

Jim Moriarty never dropped his phone.  No matter how slick the case, his phone had never slipped through his fingers.  He looked at it, face down on his desk, his hands still in the position to be cradling it.

Something was wrong.

He tried to push himself up, and _shit_  whatever paralytic drug he’d been slipped must have taken effect slowly, he couldn’t feel his legs and he hadn’t _noticed_ until right now.

Jim opened his mouth to shout, when Saoirse quietly opened the door to his office, let herself inside, and then closed it gently.  She looked at him with large, serious eyes. His eyes. Moriarty eyes set in a pointed Hooper face.

He glared at her, breathing harshly, as she stood in front of his desk, hands clasped together before her.  She was wearing a black dress with ferns and lavender embroidered at the hem, a glittery purple headband, and her dark hair was in two braids that swept over her shoulders.  She was barefoot, and her toes curled in on themselves nervously.

She smiled at him, and he was surprised to feel a little thread of fear in his stomach.  He’d never been on the business end of that sharp, dangerous smile before. He immediately knew didn’t care to repeat it.

“If you hurt my mother again, I’ll kill you.”  Her voice was softer, girlish, and lacked the Irish lilt, but it was Jim’s ‘these are the facts and there’s no room for negotiation’ voice.  “If you put one more bruise on her, lay one _finger_ on her,” one bare foot drew her silently closer, “I’ll put those lessons you bought me to good use.”

He bit out a chuckle, “You’re _six_ -”

“And a half,” she interjected, “It doesn’t seem to matter right now, does it?”  She tilted her head. “Unless you’d like to get up and show me otherwise?”

He glared at her, unable to move.

She gave a smaller smile, “I didn’t think so.”  She stepped closer, dragging her foot against the soft rug.  “You don’t have to be like this. You can change your mind, apologize, thought I doubt Mum would accept it, and try harder.”  He raised his eyebrow nearly to his hairline. She shrugged and picked up a glass paperweight shaped like a drop of water, turning it over in her small hands.  “I miss our chess lessons,” she admitted quietly. She sighed and set the paperweight down, imperfectly aligned on his paperwork. She hovered, deciding, before she whispered, eyes locking onto his chin, “I’m not stupid.  I know that, despite what Mum thinks, you’ll never let us go. It’s safer here, with Sebastian and Severin and even you, when you put your mind to it. Out there, we’d be vulnerable. Exposed. I love Mum, but she can’t hide us as well as she thinks she can.”  Her dark eyes flicked to his, “If we’re going to be stuck together, I’d rather like it to be amicable. If that means you have to exit the picture, then...” She gave a little shrug and Jim was hit in the gut with a fierce, fiery pride. His heir, absolutely. He hadn’t come up with anything nearly this elegant when he was her age.

She turned around as Jim was forced to lean heavily on his forearms, barely able to lift his head,  “Oh, and I may have done slightly too high of a dosage, you’ll probably be like that for an additional hour or so.  Don’t worry, I’ll keep everyone busy.” In the darkest voice she’d used yet, “It’s not like anyone is going to notice you’re gone.”

What a cheeky threat.

He smiled into his desk and slid his eyes shut before the paralytic stopped him from being able to move his eyelids.  Yes, she absolutely earned the present he was going to finish arranging as soon as he could flex his fingers.

 

* * *

 

The days until Christmas passed slowly.  Jim resumed his chess lessons with Saoirse, passing a few hours a week tucked into cozy chairs with a lovely hardwood set between them.  Molly always sat in the room, reading quietly with her eyes flicking over to the two of them every other page.

She stopped wearing turtlenecks, and the yellowing bruises on her throat didn’t provoke much of a response from him, but he let her catch him looking at them and sliding his eyes away in shame.  The only sign he would give of the twinge of regret in his stomach. The closest she would get to an apology. He wore his bruise proudly, and her eyes would linger on it when she thought he couldn’t see.  ‘That’s right,’ he thought, ‘rejoice in your handiwork, Molly Hooper.’

Severin often stood between him and Saoirse whenever they were in a room that wasn’t the library.  Jim couldn’t bring himself to reprimand the larger man. He fought the urge to buy him a new rifle.

And, interestingly, he stopped using Sebby.  He still had the other man sleep in his bed, but hadn’t required his services.  The last time, in the car, had been their _last time_.  Jim could feel it.  Sebastian was suspicious, he knew, that Jim would go so long without demanding some kind of physical stimulation.  He let the urge build under his skin like fire, wondering what would happen when he exploded. Eventually, he let Sebastian sleep in his own room.

The days blurred together.  He arranged the big Christmas surprise, and didn’t do much else.  Crime around the holidays was boring, predictable. He’d threatened to shoot everyone who came to him with gaudy, festive-themed plots.

When Christmas day rolled around, Jim woke early but stayed in bed until the rest of the house rose around him.

The five of them ate together in the kitchen, black pudding with soft boiled eggs and toast soldiers.  Molly made PG Tips and Jim drank his entire cup, quietly complimenting the common tea. Saoirse saw him flex his fingers afterwards and smiled into her own tea.  Jim looked at the rest of the occupants of the table and felt terribly isolated. _It’s not like anyone is going to notice you’re gone._  Surrounded by people, trusting none of them and receiving no trust in return, he might as well have been the only man in the room.

He sat quietly on the sofa and Saoirse handed out presents, the majority of them for herself, but Jim had given a few gifts to the members of his household.  Sebastian and Severin received tooled leather holsters, which weren’t practical for daily use but would serve for special occasions. He’d given Molly a pretty cashmere cardigan, the thought that it was soft and touchable and he would like to touch her no doubt in poor taste now.  She gave quiet compliments and fingered the fluffy pink material, he doubted she’d ever wear it.

Saoirse handed him a box covered in shiny red paper, and he raised an eyebrow.  Molly pinked and strode forward, “I’d forgotten about that, it’s not really-” As she reached for the box, he held it away and ripped off the paper.

A box set of the first season of Glee.

He stared at it as Molly turned red and started to explain in a rushed, hurried way, “I… I thought it would be funny, you know, from before, but you don’t have to-”

“I like it.”  He was surprised to find out that he meant it.  His time as Jim from IT had been brief, and his affair with Molly had continued as Jim Moriarty, but this had been just the two of them, cozied up on her lumpy little couch and the thing that had sparked the feeling of camaraderie with her.  That had been the first time in longer than he’d cared to admit that he didn’t feel the crushing loneliness bearing down on him. Without thinking, he loosely grasped her wrist and tugged her down, trying to kiss her cheek. She flinched back, pulling her hand away sharply, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Severin put his hand on his revolver and Saoirse locked her eyes on his face.  He clenched his hand into a fist and moved it to his thigh. He softly said, “Thank you.” He was surprised to find that he meant it. She looked a little shaken and wary, but swallowed and paused, then nodded.

Molly and Saoirse had gotten Sebastian and Severin each a Leatherman multi-tool, which they both admired and immediately clipped onto their belts.  Saoirse had made a card for each of them, which they complimented lavishly.

“Do you two ever get different presents?” Molly asked suddenly, still running her hand over the cashmere cardigan.  Petting it like she might a cat. Jim noticed that and filed it away for some other point in the future.

They shrugged simultaneously.  “We’re twins, so we’re used to it.”

Molly’s eyes got large as she flicked her gaze between them.

Severin took pity on her, “We’re fraternal, not identical.  I’m a little surprised you never noticed.”

Saoirse interjected herself into the conversation, “I noticed, but I studied genealogy a year ago.  I just didn’t think it mattered.” She held another package in her hand, a small silver box with a red bow.  “It’s for you, Mummy.”

They spent the next hour slowly opening presents and talking, Jim mostly silent but accepting packages from Saoirse.  Saoirse got a small red spinel pendant from Idris, a book of famous child criminals from Charlotte, and various trinkets and sundries from the other children at the party.

From Jim, Saoirse had gotten a set of throwing knives with mother of pearl handles.  She’d squealed and launched herself at him, completely at odds with the cold, calculating child a week ago.  Molly glared at him, but he shrugged helplessly and smiled. “Myself, Sev and Seb will give her lessons.”

From Sebastian, Saoirse had gotten a travel chess set.  It was small and delicately carved, and when folded fit perfectly in her jacket pocket. She beamed and hugged him tightly.

From Severin, Saoirse had gotten a tracker bracelet.  The silver links disguised a device that she could turn on by pressing a button in the middle of the pink flower bead set in the center of the jewelry.  Jim nodded his approval and helped Saoirse put it on. Molly hugged Severin quickly and tightly.

From Molly, Saoirse had gotten a small gold locket, which flipped open to reveal pictures of Molly and Saoirse posed together, wearing matching cardigans and butterfly hair clips. Their faces were happy, and Saoirse’s still had the soft chubbiness of baby fat around her cheeks.  Saoirse and Molly hugged tightly before she put the little heart-shaped locket around her neck.

They ate cookies that Molly had baked in the days previous and cleaned up the mess of wrapping paper, Molly holding open the bag while Saoirse and Severin shoveled armfuls of paper into it.  Sebastian took piles of unwrapped gifts to each room, piling his own and Severin’s off to the side of the living room. Jim quietly thumbed through the booklet that came with the Glee DVD set, ignoring the urge to assist in the manual labor around him.

Sebastian took the bags of paper to the trash chute, and Jim neatly put his box set back together.

Afterward, Jim clapped his hands, springing up from the couch, and said, “We’re going out!  Everyone go.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Get ready, wear something warm, Sevvie and Sebby, wear your new holsters.”

Saoirse shrieked in happiness, “Are we going ice skating?  Sledding? A sleigh ride? I can’t wait!” She zipped around the room, twirling around the bodyguards and hugging Molly, then swinging her arms around Jim’s waist before running full tilt down the hall.  She slammed into her door frame in her earnest, then shouted, “I’m okay!” before shutting her door.

Molly looked at him suspiciously.  “Yes, Jim, where are we going?” He gave her a tight smile and repeated the shooing motion.

Sebastian and Severin went without a word.

Jim hopped into his own shower and scrubbed himself down, fairly vibrating with nervousness.  He suspected his gift was going to punch him in the face and pull him back down into the dark ocean of solitude, now that he had finally struggled to the shore.  Now that he was on the cusp of having his own People, he found he couldn’t force them to stay. Better to open the gate, if only to see what they would do.

 

* * *

 

As they piled into an SUV, Jim handed Sebastian a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.  Sebastian furrowed his brow before handing it to Severin, who turned his head to peer at Jim. “Boss, this is-”

“Yes, I know.”  Jim’s voice was calm, but he raised his eyebrow and put on his best ‘why are you questioning me?’ face.

Severin and Sebastian turned silently communicate with each other, their micro-expressions an entire conversation, before Severin sighed through his nose and turned back around, “Can we sweep it before you go in, at least?”

Jim rolled his eyes, “Sure.  Happy Christmas, you get to do your job.  Now _go._ ”  He glared at the both of them as Sebastian smoothly pulled the car away from the curb.

Molly and Jim sat with Saoirse between them, silent.  Jim tapped his foot impatiently, lost in his thoughts.  He rested his forehead on his index and middle finger, arm leaning on the door armrest.

He was nervous.

He was afraid.

He didn’t want to contemplate waking up in a house without Molly and Saoirse in it.  He didn’t want to think about having them be where he couldn’t see them, he wanted to be able to reach out and grasp Molly’s wrist loosely, feel her pulse through her skin, without her flinching.  He absolutely wanted Saoirse to try and slip him something again, twee little sparrow, he’d bring his best game next time.

Jim had never wanted something like this before, and he would almost rather crack open his own chest to throw his heart into the wild North Sea than voice any of those desires out loud.

He slid his eyes over and took in Saoirse, who had changed into thick, white woolen stockings and lace up black boots, a red dress under her black peacoat with red bows on the pockets.  Her hair had been neatly re-braided and tucked under a black felt beret with a large red bow on it. Molly was dressed similarly, with a matching beret (he wondered, for a moment, where she shopped that sold items like that in adult and children’s sizes), but her peacoat was bright red and lacking any adornment.  She was wearing black leggings and an oversize white sweater, plain but entirely adorable.

Jim was wearing his all black suit with a red pocket square.

Even without meaning to, he’d attuned his style to match theirs.  How delightful, yet tacky. He refused to examine the way his heart skipped a beat.

Saoirse and Molly had taken out her travel chess set and Molly was delighting in the magnetic bottoms to the pieces, picking them up to examine their masterful carving.

Jim cleared his throat awkwardly, and Molly froze, her eyes flicking to his from under thick lashes.  He folded his hands in his lap and licked his lips once.

“Saoirse, we will be driving a while yet.  Would you care to play a round with me?” He waited for her rejection, and he saw her dark eyes narrow as she tilted her head to angle where her mother could not observe her face.  She examined him, saw through him, and took his offer for the genuine one that it was.

“Sure,” she said, at length.  He pulled out a tray, similar to an aeroplane, from the back of Sebastian’s seat, and helped her set up the board.  It even had a non-slip coating to the bottom of the field, so it wouldn’t slide around if they went over a bump. Molly’s eyes kept going from them to his hands, as if imaging when they had closed around her throat.

“Mum,” it was Saoirse who broke the ice, “whatever he did before, he’s hardly going to do it here.  You can relax.” Saoirse unbuttoned her coat to reveal the bandolier the throwing knives had come with strapped across her pretty dress, and she proudly said, “If he does anything untoward, I’ll stab him.”

Sebastian made a pained noise as Severin, sniggering, reached over to take the wheel of the car while he took half a second to pull himself together.  Molly’s face was frozen and Jim covered his eyes with his hand.

Molly couldn’t bring herself to tell her daughter to not stab her father.

Jim would have stopped her if she tried.

Saoirse buttoned her coat back up and chirped, “It’s your turn!  Check, by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! So some thoughts on Jim and Molly's scene at the beginning of this chapter, and really a musing on his personality so far in this fic: to me, Jim is not an emotionally healthy person. He's capable of love, sure, but he's never really known it. All he's known is paranoia, distrust, and betrayal. If he had not found out about Saoirse, he would not have contacted Molly again. The Molly he remembered was a distraction, a dalliance, a soft and convenient body.
> 
> Molly, however, has grown into a completely different person than she was before, as single parenthood often forces something to grow and strengthen in ways they otherwise might not. He doesn't love Molly, not yet, but he's starting to think of it as a possibility and it frightens him. When Jim feels like he owns someone, like they'll do whatever he says whenever they say it, he feels secure. He doesn't want to rely on their emotions to keep them tied to him, he wants to force their loyalty to him. They resorted to physical violence in this chapter because Jim tried to force Molly into a mold she was unwilling to fit in, and when she fought back he automatically had to swat her down. He can't look weak, he can never look weak. He is surprised with how he feels about it.
> 
> Saoirse, on the other hand, he finds himself utterly enchanted with. His relationship and feelings for Saoirse are very different from how they are with Molly. Saoirse, right now, has his complete and devoted loyalty, which he's never given before. That also frightens him, but it also has lit a burning desire in his heart to have her loyalty in return. He just honestly has no idea what to do.
> 
> Jim Moriarty is lonely. Jim Moriarty is on the very edge of the very distinct possibility of not having to endure this heavy, leaden weight of sadness and isolation in his heart anymore, and it's so new he doesn't know how to handle it.
> 
> A frightened and unsettled Jim Moriarty that has to really, really work to be able to love someone instead of possessing them is something I desperately wanted to explore. I know for some people, this has been a very different and difficult read compared to my usual plots. I sincerely apologize if I have upset anyone, it was NEVER my intention to force anyone to be uncomfortable, I understand now that I did not clearly tag a fair few triggers in this story.


	5. The Spaces Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you should punch this gift horse in the mouth, Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There's allusions to the idea of terminating a pregnancy in this chapter.

The car crunched along the pea gravel and slush through a series of abandoned warehouses.  One of them had it’s large service door rolled up, and Sebastian checked the fading spray-painted numbers on the outside before turning the car in slowly.

There were no guards visible, just two large rolling frames with navy blue fabric stretched across.  Barriers.

Anthea, however, was seated neatly in between them on a folding metal chair, tapping away at her phone.  She didn’t look up as the car came to a stop, but did flick her eyes towards them disinterestedly as Severin and Sebastian got out of the car.

Severin walked up to her, “We need to do a sweep.”

Anthea shook her and laughed a little, “My employer has done a thorough job of that, Mr. Moran.”  She handed him a white card and sat back comfortably on the very uncomfortable looking seat.

He turned the card over, _Mycroft Holmes_ , and sucked on his teeth for a second.  He showed the card to Sebastian, who considered it.  They locked eyes. The Ice Man had done plenty of business with the Boss before, and it had always been on the up and up.  But now, with Molly and the littlest Moriarty in tow?

There was a hard thump from the interior of the car and Sebastian looked over.  Jim had rolled down the window and was looking annoyed. He raised his eyebrow and Severin jogged over to talk to him, heavy booted steps and the sounds of artillery clashing together ringing through the space.  Jim hissed, “What is the problem, Moran?”

Severin sighed and looked over his shoulder, where Sebastian was glaring at Anthea, who didn’t seem to care, and was tapping his rifle impatiently.  “Boss, she won’t let us sweep. Says her employer already did it.”

Jim looked even further cross, “And?”

Severin’s eyes glanced behind him, where Molly and Saoirse were watching with rapt attention.  “Well, we weren’t sure-”

“It’s fine.” Jim snapped.  He opened up his door abruptly, forcing Severin to take several steps back.

He helped Saoirse down, and pointedly did not offer his hand to Molly, who looked relieved.  She hopped down on her own, looking around the large space curiously. Saoirse automatically went to her side, tucking her little hand into Molly’s jacket pocket.  Molly’s arm went around her shoulders, patting her softly. “Jim, it’s...great.”

He looked at her blankly, before spinning around and taking in the abandoned warehouse.  “I… you don’t seriously… This isn’t the surprise, Mollykins.” She wrinkled her nose at the nickname.

Anthea stayed in her seat and ignored them.

Jim made a sharp gesture at the left barrier, and Severin walked over cautiously to push it away.  Sebastian held his rifle in an offensive position, just in case.

The panel rolled away to reveal… Sally Donovan.

Saoirse shrieked, breaking away from Molly and running at full speed toward her, “AUNT SALLY!!”

Sally caught Saoirse in a hug and spun her around, balancing on her hip and chatting excitedly.  She kept kissing Saoirse’s forehead again and again, holding her tightly.

Molly ran over a split second later, throwing her arms around the both of them.

As they happily reunited, Sally no doubt grilling Molly about the possibility of an escape, her previous locations and known stomping grounds, Severin Moran started to blush.  His brain stuttered to a stop. The sun seemed a little brighter, the air a little warmer, and his heart beat a little faster.

Sally Donovan was… Well, she was… _cute_.

From her easy smile to the confidant cock of her hip, Severin found himself wanting to learn a bit more about her.  Sebastian rolled his eyes and hit his brother on the shoulder. “Go on over and be the big hunky guy with the gun.”

They overheard, “...and then a big guy tried to grab me but I hit him right in the eye, just like you taught me!”  Sebastian winced, remember the sharp jab of her little fist, and Sally caught the expression, her eyes narrowing.

“How would you like another lesson, little one?”  Sally said menacingly, setting Saoirse down lightly on her feet.  Saoirse clapped and then held up her little fists in a classic defensive stance.

“I’m ready, Aunt Sally!”

Jim meandered over, hands clasped behind his back, and chuckled.  Sally stiffened and took a step backwards, balling her hands up at her sides.  “As touching as this is, I’m going to borrow Molly. Time is short, and there’s one more surprise.  Oh, and before I forget!” He pulled a cheap supermarket Christmas bow out of his pocket, bright red and slightly crumpled, making a show of peeling off the sticky backing before striding forward and gently setting the bow in the middle of her cloud of curls.  Molly could tell the only thing keeping Sally from ripping it off her head and shoving it in Jim’s mouth was Saoirse’s delighted giggles. Jim’s eyes softened, “Happy Christmas, my own. Enjoy your visit.” Saoirse beamed at him, then turned back to Sally.

Jim beckoned Molly to follow him, keeping his hands in his pockets and his posture casual.

As they neared the right curtain, Anthea’s bored voice cut through them, “Remember, Mr. Moriarty, do no harm.”

“Yes yes yes, I do so swear.”  He held his right hand up mockingly,

Molly had a very strong idea about who was behind the curtain meant for her.  Her throat went dry and her hands started to tremble.

“For you, my lady,” he gave her a sharp grin that didn’t reach his eyes, before giving the rolling partition a forceful push and stepping back.

Molly almost closed her eyes, but fought herself to keep them trained on the space in front of her.

There, behind the curtain, clad in Belstaff and scarf, with his cheekbones and his eyes and his fluffy hair, was Sherlock Holmes.  He smiled, pleased to see her.

She was… not happy to see him, Jim realized as she schooled her face into a cool expression.

“Molly,” he said, cautiously.

“Sherlock,” she said distantly.  “You look… well.”

His eyes roved over her, “You as well.  Moriarty must be treating you as well as he promised.”

“What?” She snapped her head around to stare at Jim, her eyes narrowed.  “Never mind. Thanks for your _concern_ ,” she snapped, swiveling her head back to Sherlock.  He looked...hurt?

Jim was feeling increasingly confused.  He’d expected them to fall into each other’s arms.  He’d expected a nauseating display of affection, a bent over kiss with one leg in the air, perhaps.  Right now, it looked like Sherlock was holding out an olive branch and Molly wanted to rip his arm off.

He slowly started to smile.

Happy Christmas indeed.

 

* * *

 

“Aunt Sally, show me more moves!”  Saoirse started to punch at the air, bouncing back and forth on her widely spread feet.  Sally chuckled and leaned down, adjusting her stance minutely.

“You still look pretty good, been practicing?”  She nudged one foot in a little and adjusted the angle of the toes.

Saoirse beamed, “Yep!  Sevvy helps me in the mornings.”

“Sevvy?”  Sally’s eyes flicked to Severin, who looked so disinterested she knew he was paying close attention.  “Well, maybe Sevvy won’t mind helping me show you something new.”

Jim had drifted back over their way, keeping an ear turned towards Molly and Sherlock, but keeping his eyes on Sally and Severin.  Sebastian had turned towards them as well.

“I’m sure Sevvy wouldn’t.”  Jim snapped his fingers and gestured toward Sally.  He tossed his rifle to Sebastian, and took off his holster, utility belt, thigh pouch and took five minutes unloading hidden weapons from on his person.  Sally’s eyebrows rose closer and closer to her hairline as the pile of weapons grew.

Saoirse floated over towards her father, almost reaching for his hand, then withdrawing.  She was looking bleakly over to where Sherlock was standing very close to Molly, and their faces were pinched in anger.

“Sherlock is going to say a lot of unpleasant things if he sees me standing next to you,” Saoirse said flatly.  Jim looked over, running his eyes over their body language. He turned to look at Saoirse, who seemed to be turning in on herself.  “He always says such terrible things. Every time.” Her voice got very quiet. “Especially when Mum isn’t there.”

The line echoed from the Christmas party at 221B all those years ago, where he’d winced behind his laptop as the feed had streamed from the cameras Sherlock hadn’t found by then.  The rest of the party had been amusing, but Sherlock’s complete lack of manners had annoyed Jim to no end. He’d wanted to slap the uncouth detective on the back of the head then, and he’d upgraded his level of violence to strangulation for this occasion.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Anthea looked up from her screen and glared at him.

He smiled at her tightly, reaching over to put one steadying hand on Saoirse’s shoulder.

He turned them both back just in time to see Sally Donovan flip 250 pounds of solid muscle shaped like Severin Moran into the floor with a thud using nothing but her thighs around his neck.  When they landed, it was in a very compromising position that had Jim slapping a hand over Saoirse’s eyes and all but shouting at them, “There are CHILDREN present, you fiends. If you need a room, I can be obliged to provide one.”

Whatever the love-struck looking Severin was about to say from between Sally’s strong thighs was ruined by Sherlock’s smooth voice echoing sharply around the warehouse.

“I was starting to… I taught her violin, Molly!  Deduction, science, how to _observe_.  I saw so much of myself in her mind, so much we could have built, together, but YOU-”  Sherlock was looking close to ruffled now, and Molly looked apocalyptic.

“It was a _LIE._  I saw the way you looked at her, Sherlock, you couldn’t past her resemblance to Jim!  I saw the notes, Sherlock! You were deducing her, tracking her, making a _case_ out of my _baby!_ ”  Molly fairly screamed, her fists balled up tightly at her side.  “I saw you making the list of _experiments_ and-”

He scoffed, “That was years ago, what does it-”

“What does it _matter?_  Is that what you’re going to say, you _machine?”_ Molly was screeching now.

“You took her AWAY!  Both of you, you got _spooked,_ because you’re _ordinary,_ because I was _curious_ , and I hadn’t seen you for nearly a _year-”_

“Are you angry,” she growled, “because you missed us, or because I took away a _distraction_?”  She stepped closer, “Don’t you dare say it’s the same thing.”

“Look at her now,” he bellowed, ignoring her accusations, flinging his arm out, “So comfortable at her sire’s side, and look at how well she wears his face!  Just like I warned you, you’re raising her but she’s _Moriarty_ through and through.”  He leaned into her, and she didn’t give an inch.  “And is it _Jim_ , now, Molly?  I just knew you wouldn’t be able-”

Molly slapped Sherlock viciously, harder than when she’d first tested him for drugs and found almost too many to name in his system, harder than when she’d tasted the bitter pill of disappointment on her tongue, of Sherlock failing her and everyone else who sought to hold him up.  He looked at her, eyes suddenly clear and beeching, “I...I apologize,” he said the word like it left bad taste in his mouth, “but Molly, look. Look at her.” Unbidden, Molly looked at Saoirse’s frightened little face, half hidden behind Jim’s leg. “She _belongs_ here, Molly, but you…” She turned her head back to him, brows drawn down angrily, “You.”  He swallowed, held out his hand. His long, fine fingers, and Molly was reminded unwillingly of the feeling of those same digits plucking at her, taut like his violin, and she shuddered despite herself, “You belong with _me_.”  His voice lowered, pleading, flowing through her, and she couldn’t find a hint of manipulation in it, “Come with me, Molly Hooper, and leave the child here.  I couldn’t sway you to get rid of her in the womb, but abandon her in her natural environment and-”

Jim heard the cocking of a gun behind him and saw that Severin had silently set Sally to the side, gotten up and retrieved his revolver from the pile of weapons.  His face was still, but his eyes burned like _fire._  Sebastian had also pulled his rifle up into an offensive position, finger hovering above the trigger.  Even Sally was standing behind Severin, looking at Sherlock with a righteous fury.

But even as he slowly swung his head back to Molly and Sherlock, internally debating whether or not Mycroft would find his brother’s imminent maiming acceptable under the circumstances, and in no way a violation of their no-tolerance policy for harm coming to the middle Holmes, he felt a tiny hand slip into his.

He flicked his eyes down, and Saoirse’s face had crumpled, her eyes bright with tears that threatened to overflow.  She was holding on to Jim’s hand for dear life, and a thought slammed it’s way to the front of his brain, _Sherlock was more of a father to her than you_.  Sherlock had played, in his own weird little way, the main paternal figure in Saoirse’s life for several years.  And he’d just tried to ply her mother into abandoning her, admitted he tried to get Molly to abort her, and he’d seen her as little more than an experiment.  A puzzle. A thing, not a child to love. Just something dangerous to keep an eye on, in case it decided to let its claws out when his back was turned. In that moment, Jim grew both tired of Sherlock and very intent on having the man’s blood coating his hands.

Then Saoirse let out a little sob.

Jim made a decision.

Fuck Sherlock.   This game was boring, bullying children wasn’t something he found interesting or particularly noteworthy.  The only thing keeping him alive was Mycroft’s snaking vines that Jim had willing set himself in. For now.

He flicked his eyes to Severin, murmuring, “No lasting harm must come from you.  Mycroft’s orders.” He reached down and, for the first time, smoothly picked Saoirse up and cradled her to his chest.  He ignored the tears that crept down her cheeks to stain his suit. He cuddled her slightly awkwardly, as a first timer does, but she adjusted herself to be comfortable.

Molly’s face was a frightening mix of longing and anger, and Jim wasn’t sure if she was going to take Sherlock’s hand or break it.  Part of him wanted to wait and see which it was, but then Saoirse moved against his shoulder and he resolved to get her away from her as soon as possible.

Jim called out, softly, “Molly.” She turned to face him, the surprise plain on her face at Saoirse shaking in his arms.  “Time to go.” He didn’t disguise the annoyance in his voice. The subtext ran plainly through his words, ‘Him or me. Choose now and stand by it.’  Saoirse had buried her face in his shoulder, her little body shaking with silent sobs, and he smoothed one of his hands up her back. Protection. Possession.  No matter what, Saoirse was staying in his arms.

“Molly,” Sherlock whispered, voice starting to crack.  “It’s our chance, Molly, you matter, you’ve always mattered, don’t-” he reached for her hand and she stepped back suddenly.  As if she wasn’t entirely in control of her body.

“You’re right, Sherlock,” her voice was rough, like she was about to cry, “Saoirse belongs with him.”  She rubbed her eyes with the hem of her coat sleeve roughly, “And I belong with Saoirse. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

She walked away quickly, keeping her head down, ignoring his increasingly frantic hisses of her name.  His hand grasped on empty air.

She wrapped her arms around her torso, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and he sneered, "You're walking into a den of wolves, Molly Hooper," coldly, his eyes flashing like ice, "I won't be there to drag you out when they get hungry." He opened his mouth again, eyes glinting like he’d thought of something to _destroy_ her, when Severin’s heavily muscled arm locked itself around his throat.  He tried to get himself out of the very tidy headlock, but Severin wrenched him down uncomfortably, the detective’s hair bouncing with the jarring twist.

“That’s enough of that, now.” Severin said in his ear, voice strained.  Sherlock was strong, but Severin was stronger. Sebastian, who was already waiting in the driver’s seat, locked eyes with Severin and nodded slightly. As Molly strode over to Jim, she reached out her arms to take Saoirse away from him, but he turned his body away from her ever so slightly, “I’ve got her.  What do you need?”

“Sherlock’s head on a _spike_.” He started to grin and she amended quickly, “Metaphorically!  My god, I forgot I can’t say anything around you. What I really need is a tissue.”  He produced his pocket square with a flutter of his wrist, and she took it gratefully.  She dabbed the angry tears that had started to gather, and reached out to smooth one hand down Saoirse’s back.  She kept her hand right between the shoulder blades, to feel the pattern of her breathing and the strong thump of her heartbeat.

She and Jim stared at each other while Anthea ignored the sounds of a struggling Sherlock.  Her orders were no harm, but that was a term with a _lot_ of room for interpretation.

The struggling got a little more pronounced, and Anthea got a sour look on her face, but Jim called out, “Don’t worry, dear, he won’t leave a mark.  So well trained, my Sevvy.” She rolled her eyes, but even Anthea had dreamed of shutting up Sherlock’s stupid mouth with violence from time to time.

Sherlock was trying to flip himself around to get out of the tight hold, but Severin shook him sternly.  “Relax, I won’t kill you. Just trying to send a message. You are _fucking_ lucky that your brother has prevented any harm coming to you today. But you better watch your fucking back you fucking fuck.”  He leaned in closer, smiling an unfriendly smile, “I’m Saoirse’s dog now, and when she gives the signal I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”  He bared his teeth, “And Sherlock? I don’t bark before I _bite._ ”

He released Sherlock suddenly.  He fought not to collapse, but swayed unsteadily as he tried to suck in enough oxygen before he lifted one finger to point it in Severin’s unimpressed face. “You-”

He was cut off as the sensitive backs of his knees got folded in by a swift kick from a lightly heeled leather boot.  As he crumbled, he revealed a very, very angry Sally Donovan.

Severin discreetly adjusted his pants.

She grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair and forced his head back, his eyes meeting hers.  “Listen here, freak,” she hissed, “I don’t give a fuck what you and Molly did, but that is a _child_.  Leave her out of it.”

Sherlock wheezed out, “You don’t under-” his eyes were hazy but slightly panicked.

Then, cementing her place in Severin’s heart, she walked around and punched Sherlock straight in the face. The sound of his nose breaking rung through the warehouse, along with his yelp of pain, and Molly, still turned away, instantly covered her mouth with her hands.  She had to resist the voice inside of her, wailing that it was _Sherlock, he didn’t mean it, he said that sort of stuff all the time, go check on him!_ , to silently load up into the car.  He made his bed, now he had to lie in it.

Sherlock crumpled down, and Severn tried for a confident, yet casual pose.  “So, uh, you doing anything Tuesday evening?”

Sally turned around, brushing her curls out of her face with one hand, squinting at him, “What?”

He gave an awkward smile, “Tuesday evening, maybe seven?  Dinner and pints?”

Sally looked at him blankly, while Jim had set Saoirse next to her mother and walked quickly over.  He stepped around Sherlock neatly, not even looking at him. He tapped her on the shoulder with his business card, which she took out of reflex.  “If you want a job paying triple what you currently make, guarding Molly and Saoirse, call that number and drop my name. Severin is asking you on a date, badly.  He’s cute enough, doll, you probably won’t do better.”

Anthea was stalking over to them, so Jim tugged on Severin’s arm.  “Time to go! I wrote Severin’s number on the back, texting is best, ta love!”  They took off toward the car at a fast jog to avoid Anthea in her impossibly high heels.  Jim launched himself into the open door, Severin yanking his own open. Sebastian took off before Severin had even fully sat inside, growling, “Really, little brother?  A _cop_?”

“You’re one minute older than me, that doesn’t exactly count,” Severin’s voice was dreamy as he absently buckled himself in.  “And cop or no, Sally Donovan is so just so…” he made suggestive shapes in the air, “...smart.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes as he quickly navigated back the way they’d come.

In the backseat, Molly was holding Saoirse close to her side, lips pressed silently to the crown of her head.  Jim rubbed his forehead, emotions gave him a headache, before he unbuckled and kneeled down in front of his daughter on the cramped SUV floor.

“Saoirse,” his deep, serious voice got her attention instantly, and he realized he didn’t know how to voice all of the emotions swirling around inside of him.  She was his daughter, and he fully embraced the fierce pride and another, deeper emotion he couldn’t name that had hooked itself into his heart. She was all of the best parts of him and Molly, distilled and packaged into the most perfect person he could ask for, and he knew without hesitation that he would kill for her, but more importantly, he’d die for her.  He’d give his life for her in a minute. He’d never known how badly he longed for a family until right now, when it hit him that Molly going with Sherlock had been a very distinct possibility. If she had, he didn’t want to examine how he would have reacted too closely. He wanted to think he would have let her go, but looking at Saoirse’s face right now, he imagined it twisted with pain at being abandoned by her mother, and he felt a violent urge itch just under his skin.

How could one little babe make him feel this way?  He felt his ties to her like a leash, and he didn’t entirely want to rip it off.

“Saoirse,” he murmured, softer, and leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers.

She closed her eyes, leaned her head on his, and put her little hands on his cheeks.  He slid his hands down to her elbows and they sat quietly together.

They didn’t need to say anything at all.

Molly sat quietly to the side, not sure if she was feeling like their little unit was more cohesive or more fractured than before.  She didn’t feel like she belonged in this private moment between Jim and Saoirse, so she kept her hands to herself and looked away respectfully.

After Jim pulled away a moment later, he blinked rapidly a few times, then sat in his seat and ignored his seat belt.

Saoirse snuck one of her hands into his, then grabbed one of Molly’s.

They sat silently, Saoirse holding her little world together, for the rest of the ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think.


	6. Anything Becomes Ordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wait, Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence and kidnapping in this chapter!

Winter melted into spring, and Molly spent those cold months entertaining Christine and Navya in turn, as well as several other wives, husbands and children that wanted to curry favor with the Moriarty empire.  She grew to regard them as friends, as much as you can be friends with someone who could be your enemy at the drop of a hat.

Jim had cautiously allowed her lessons in deportment and intrigue, just so she could recognize when someone was trying to trap her into a web of false flattery.  Christine was the worst, she turned everything into a game of words and tried to wring a confession of murder out of someone over toast and tea. Molly was impressed and terrified in equal measure.  Navya was more subtle, and she could twist her words like taffy, warm and sticky, and you wouldn’t know you were trapped until it was far too late.

Saoirse started her lessons again after the holidays, and Jim found himself, in the evenings, often tucked next to the chess board in the library, discussing her current workload and any problems she was running into.  He’d started allowing her several group lessons with the other children, Idris and Charlotte included, that took place at a secret, secure location that rotated weekly. The social interaction frustrated her sometimes, and he’d have to talk her through the Game the other children had been brought up on.  Molly would often sit nearby, pouring over a medical journal or sappy love story, depending on her mood, and contributing to their conversation occasionally. The atmosphere in that little room became a balm for his fractured soul.

 

* * *

 

Molly had approached him, a week after Christmas, to lean against the doorway of his open office and softly asked, “Why?”

“Why what?” he muttered, willfully obtuse.  Holidays officially done, he had to concentrate on how to best topple the government in Estonia.  Surprisingly, it was looking a little tough. There was supposed to be a national singing event, maybe he could bomb the largest gathering?  They were so damn patriotic. He shuffled through his cultural documentation.

Molly waited silently.

The feeling of her eyes on his forehead grew to an itch he couldn’t scratch, he finally threw down a detailed list of valued national monuments and rolled his eyes, “Real mature.  The _lurking_.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and shifted her stance ever so slightly.

He spun around in his chair, eyes glued to the fussy trefoil pattern of his ceiling.  “ _Fiiiiine_.  I wanted to give you a,” he made a look of disgust, as if he’d never imagined himself capable of saying such a thing, and he spit, “choice.  If you wanted to go with Sherlock, I wanted to give you the option. An out.”

She tilted her head.  “And leave Saoirse.”

He stilled, “Naturally.  Leave in her _natural environment_ and all.”  He repeated Sherlock’s words in the most mocking tone he could muster.

Molly sucked in a deep breath and looked away.  Then softly, she said, “I’ll never leave my daughter.  Never. But if she wasn’t-”

“Let me stop you there.  If Saoirse had never existed, I wouldn’t have taken you to begin with.  You’re not quite that _interesting_ , Molly dear.”  He gave her a cutting smile, then flicked his eyes up and down, “What was Sherlock doing that was bad enough to drive you from his bed?”

She considered not answering, it was plain on her face.  He narrowed his eyes and shifted his stance. _Don’t defy me_.  She sighed, “He was… profiling her.  He saw her as another example of you, and wanted to…” She rubbed her forehead, “He wanted to see if he could catch signs of your particular type of-” she bit her tongue and eyed him.

He raised his eyebrow, “Insanity?  Mania? Brilliance?”

Softly, “Something like that.  He’d been disguising his experiments as games, but I caught him trying to take a strand her hair, then a sample of her blood when she’d skinned her knee at the park.  When I confronted him, he said he just wanted to sequence her genes.” Her eyes got misty, far away, and her voice got even softer, “Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she was just a… a pawn.  A thing that he could poke and prod and try to figure out, instead of a little girl who wanted to read stories on his lap. We fought about it. He kept calling her _Moriarty_ instead of _Saoirse_ and I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t, wouldn’t, argue with him about the fact that she’s not you.  She got so resistant to spending any time with Sherlock, like she was afraid, so I broke it off.  Told him at the morgue to leave me alone, even got Mycroft involved. I cut him out of my life.” Her eyes sharpened and looked at him.

He was quiet, reassessing her.  Molly from the ‘Jim from IT’ days would never have been able to do that.  Miss ‘he turns me into a mouse’ Hooper could not have imagined a universe where Sherlock was not her terrible, unstable sun at the center.  This Molly Hooper was still prey instead of predator, but she’d grown armor. Horns, claws, defense mechanisms. Anyone would have problems attacking her now.  He leaned back. _Interesting._

Molly narrowed her eyes at him suddenly, “Sherlock said, ‘treating you as well as he promised.’  What, exactly, does that mean?”

Jim blinked rapidly, thinking back.  Oh, that. Right.

“Dear Sherlock is the reason your belongings were delayed, last month.  He was snooping around, looking for clues, and I had to intervene.” He gave an elegant shrug, “I simply gave him evidence that you and Saoirse were where you belonged, well treated, and protected.”  He raised his eyebrows, “I may have also questioned him on how much he knew about the threat of imminent death that was hunting both of you and was appalled by how little he knew.” Jim looked away. “He… acquiesced.  It was really one of the more charming interactions we had. He’s changed quite a bit since his little family reunion.”

She considered him, turning her head to the side, before she smiled and said, “There’s really nothing I can say that’ll convey how incredibly strange this is.”  She rubbed head again, “I’m… going to lay down.” She turned a sharp gaze on him, “Alone.” He pouted playfully for a moment before dismissing her with a flick of his hand.  She rolled her eyes and stalked out of the room.

He turned back to his paperwork, carefully not paying attention to the sway of her hips as she walked. His eyes focused on the page, not really seeing anything, as he listened for the quiet noise of her door fitting itself snuggly into the frame.

Right.  Estonia.  He got back to work.

 

* * *

 

Sally and Severin had gone on their date, their dinner and drinks on Tuesday ending when Severin came home Wednesday morning, practically floating.  He’d danced around the flat with Saoirse, who giggled and held on for dear life, Molly leaning against her door frame and smiling softly. Sally had become a regular object in his orbit, usually meeting at a pub or down-scale restaurant, and Severin found the more he learned about her, the more he liked her.  And he didn’t have to hide anything about who his employer was, and she didn’t ask too much about it. What she did ask was in relation to him, how he enjoyed it, what his most difficult assignment was, Sev was more a close assassin where Seb was the sniper, how he’d gotten so protective over the littlest Moriarty.  She had the softest hair and the softest lips and she could probably choke him out with those thighs… More than once, Sebastian had to whack him on the back of the head to pay attention during briefings.

After Sebastian had a quiet conversation with Jim, he’d bought the flat below theirs.  The current occupants didn’t know, but their bank, that Jim also owned, suddenly felt the need to evict them and seize the property.  The keys were dropped neatly into his hands two weeks later.

He’d presented them to Severin, who was stunned, on the understanding that the flat was only for when he brought Sally over.  He still needed the men living most of the time in his flat, for his own protection and Saoirse’s. He’d had it tastefully furnished and bugged, but not the bedroom.  Severin kept that in mind the first time he brought Sally back and she tried to push him down on the couch.

He hadn’t been allowed to bring her back to the main flat yet, but he acted as a messenger bird for Molly and Sally.  They wrote little letters and notes.

Jim had been considering getting burner phones for the both of them so they could call and text.  He also considered getting Sevvie a postal worker uniform, it was just so cute how he was passing messages back and forth.

In the end, he didn’t do anything else.  He sat back and didn’t interfere. It was a new tactic for him, and it was interesting.  Letting everything play out on it’s own. He rather enjoyed it.

Later, in late March, just as jonquils and snowdrops were in full bloom, he might wonder if that was when his tight hold on his household security started to slip.  If that was the beginning of the steps that lead him here, to being pistol whipped in front of his home while someone in a mask threw Severin, a weeping Saoirse tucked into the iron grip of his arms, in the back of a van.  Molly was already unconscious, left sprawled on the ground like trash. A deep cut on her head was bleeding into her hair. Sebastian was being wrestled down by four men. One of them had a taser, with a highly illegal voltage judging by the sounds he was making.

There had been letters, before.  Threats. It had become ordinary, and he’d stopped paying as much attention to it as he should.  After all, he was a dangerous person, surrounded by dangerous people, in control of a large part of the underground crime in London, who would dare to actually harm him?  Sloppy. Careless.

A fatal mistake.  One he absolutely would not make again.

As the masked man pulled back his gun to hit him in the head again, Jim sent him a look filled with all of the rage and hated he could feel coiling in his gut.  They, whoever _they_ really were, thought parenthood, the family life, had weakened Jim Moriarty.  They were right, in a roundabout way, but they were also very, very wrong. The man froze for just a second, and it was all he needed.  Jim lunged forward, only to catch the butt of a rifle from the side, right on his temple.

He fell sideways, stunned, as another masked person stepped over him.  The mask was different, oddly shaped, and as a genderless, garbled voice crooned out, he felt the first tendril of fear snake through him.  Shit, those were expensive. This was professional level identity protection. “Now now, anything you do to mine, I’ll do to yours.” They gestured to the van, and Jim’s hazy, unfocused eyes tried to scan the body for any tells.  The shapeless clothing revealed nothing but the person was thin. No hint of a broad shoulder or curved hip, no skin visible, no hair, the stance was relaxed but almost military in its tension. Jim had no doubt that this person could go from rest to action as quickly as one of his own bodyguards.

“Who are-” he croaked out.

The person put their black boot on his throat.  Leather, rubber sole. No mud, no dirt, no flora matter in the tread, only debris from this particular section of London street and four very sharp pieces of glass from the blown out window in his building.  They threatened to dislodge from the boot to make a new home in his skin. Laces were black paracord, thick, military, tied perfectly even with the ends tucked inside. Nothing feminine or masculine, nothing personal about it at all.  Uniform as a well-trained soldier. Military experience? Likely.

Then the boot bore down and he stopped thinking about anything but oxygen and how long he could go without it.

“You should already know who I am.”  The boot pressed slightly harder, the glass breaking through his skin, “And if you don’t, that’s just such a shame.”

The head trauma, combined with the lack of oxygen, made his vision grow dark and spotted, the last thing he heard was Sebastian’s scream cut short as he was overtaken, combined with the van’s tires squealing as they sped away, and there, filling his vision, was his own face reflected in the black plastic gaze of the mask above him.

Then, he didn’t know anything at all.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up, he was on the floor of his office.  The door was locked, barred, and Molly was on the couch.  She was sitting up, legs scratched and dirty, holding a white towel to the side of her face.

Sebastian was laying on the floor in front of her, and she was speaking lowly.

“Just try to relax, Seb, the nerves are still trying to set themselves back to rights.”  He gave a pained moan, and she made shushing noise, “I know, I know, it hurts, your muscles are absolutely cramping, but you gotta try to relax, Seb.”  She hissed as she tried to lean down and rub his head. “Damn, I wish I could just run you a hot bath.”

She almost toppled to the side, and Jim rolled over to try and push himself up.  She started and had to brace herself on the arm of the couch, gasping, “Jim! You’re alright!”  She studied him and amended, “Well, as alright as any of us, I suppose. Alive, at least.”

“How did we get up here?” he growled, bracing himself on his hands.  His legs were shaking and his suit was absolutely ruined.

“Smithy and Rogers.  The alarm went off. They were the first to arrive.” She blushed a little, “Smithy, uh, had to carry you over his shoulder.  I needed to be supported and Sebastian is… heavy.”

Mentally, he was adding zeros to their bonus pay.  Physically, he didn’t acknowledge anything she’d said.

He stood, shakily, and felt his head.  It throbbed.

“Jim,” Molly’s voice was soft and her face was serious, half hidden under the towel.  “You need to sit down. You… they hit you quite a few times, judging by your face.”

He sat heavily in his office chair.  “Are Smithy and Rogers out there?”

She nodded after a slight hesitation.  “They… they said they were getting more people.  All hands on deck. Cleaning crews are downstairs right now.  They already got the plates of the van.” She shrugged helplessly, motion making her grimace in pain, “It was stolen.  Already been found abandoned. Nothing left inside.”

Sebastian had finally sat up, fumbling with one of the small pouches on his desk and shakily bringing a small red pill to his mouth.  He swallowed it dry.

They passed the next five minutes in silence, then Sebastian got up like he hadn’t just gotten his body pumped full of electricity.  Molly looked alarmed, “Seb-”

“Stimulants,” he bit out.  “I got a job to do.”

“But-”

“Molly,” Jim snarled, “Sebastian is an adult.  Drop it. He’ll do what he has to.”

She sighed and nodded her head.  The set of her lips and the way one bloodshot eye tracked Sebastian’s pronounced limp made it clear she wasn’t happy about it.

Then, Jim’s phone rang.

They all froze, turning slowly to the cracked screen of the mobile that was buzzing on his desk.

“Sebastian, the recorder,” Jim breathed.

“Got it.”  He’d already strode to a false book on one of the built-in walnut shelves, throwing the hollow book on the ground and grasping the slim device.  A little red light turned on, and Jim swiped to answer. He put it on speaker.

“Hello there.” Jim’s voice was cold enough to make Molly shiver.

A genderless crackle on the other end, “Did you miss us, Mr. Moriarty?”

“What do you want?”  He wore his best ‘obey me and tell me what I want to know’ voice.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work on whoever was on the other end of the line.  “Oh, what could it be that I want? What do you think?” The voice was distorted, hard to hear, but the patronizing tone was very clear.

“Money.  Everyone always wants money.  How much is really the only thing I need to know.”  His voice was flat, bored, and hard. Molly fought to control her breathing.

The voice on the other end gave a strange approximation of laugher.  “Money? What would I do with money? What if I paid _you_?  How much for the child and the assassin?  I think 40 million is a fair number.”

Jim ground his teeth together, “They’re not for sale.”

“And why not?” The voice was quick to respond, barely understandable through the voice filter.  “They’re just people, right? Just lives. You sell those aaaall the time, Mr. Moriarty.”

Molly rubbed a shaking hand across her eyes.  She was fighting to not say anything, and he could tell she was going to lose it soon.  He jerked his head to Sebastian, who stepped closer. Ready to cover her mouth if necessary.

“These people are not for sale.  It’s not negotiable.” His voice was getting deeper, his Irish lilt coming out even stronger.

“Because they’re your _family_?  Is that why?  I want you to _say it_.”  The voice sounded almost breathy, excited.  Exposing his weaknesses.

He was silent.  Molly’s breathing got slightly faster.  When he didn’t say anything, the voice clucked in disappointment.  “Well, at least I know there are some things you value more than material wealth.  It’s the same for me, you see. There are some things money just can’t buy.” There was a scraping sound on the other end, like a knife on a table top.  Metal on wood. “What do I want, Mr. Moriarty?”

“I don’t know,” he bit out.

“You still don’t know who I am, do you?  I thought you were supposed to be smarter than this.  You’re disappointing me, Mr. Moriarty.” Another sound, scissors snipping something.  “You’re disappointing them too. I’ll get you a momento mori here shortly. Ta.”

The line clicked off before he could say anything else.

He was completely silent and still, his breathing slow and steady, even as his mind worked into overdrive.  “Did we get it?”

“Yes, Boss.”  Sebastian held up the small recording device.

“Good.  Get it to Sherlock. Now.”  He rubbed the beveled corner of his phone against the deep furrow between his brows.  “I’m going to need a little _help_.”  Sebastian turned and walked out of the room, his gait slow and unsteady.  The stimulants would work, they had before, but not for long.

Molly, still holding a hand towel against her wound, snapped at him, “Why didn’t you say it?”

“What?” he said distractedly, still running the phone between his brows.  Hard enough to leave a white line. He just needed to _think,_ but oh it felt like his brain was going to drip out of his _nose_ , it throbbed so badly…

“Why didn’t you say that they’re family? Saoirse and Sev?”  Her voice had gone tight and hard. Brittle.

He sighed.  “It would be as good as a death sentence.  Jim Moriarty doesn’t care about anyone. Jim Moriarty doesn’t have a _family_.”

“Doesn’t he.”  Molly said flatly.

“Don’t be obtuse, Molly.” He snapped at her.  “Openly acknowledging a weakness simply isn’t _done_.  But of course you’re my family, and of course you’re my-” He bit his own tongue then, closing his eyes before starting again.  “Here, in these walls, you’re mine. Here, in these walls, I’m yours. Here, in these walls, we’re together. Outside, I’m alone.  I protect all of you, Seb and Severin are an extension of me. Outside, you’re my property and nobody can touch you because _I say so_.”  He looked at her, eyes flat and hard and dead, “Outside, I don’t care beyond the fact that you’re _mine_.”

She went to stand up and he rolled his eyes, “You’ve had major blunt force trauma to the head, my dear, you should stay seated.”  He rolled his own chair over neatly, ignoring his own agony, reaching up to gently remove the cloth. She hissed as some of the clotted blood caught and pulled at her skin and hair.  He clucked his tongue. “This is going to need stitches. Do you want me or Sebbie to do it?”

“Which one of you is neater?” Her voice was tired, quiet and resigned.

He shrugged, wincing as the motion made his neck throb.  “I am. Sebby is more efficient, I’m better at smaller stitches.”

“You, then.”  She flicked her eyes up at him.  “I should check you out too. Could have a bleed you don’t know about.”

He pulled a suture kit from his desk, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves.  “Probably. Now be quiet so I can concentrate. And stay still.” He took an antiseptic wipe and dabbed around the edges of the wound.  Bad luck, that. Whatever it was that had struck her had done it hard enough to tear her face open. It stretched from her hairline down to the corner of her eye, the edges ragged and untidy.  There was still some gravel caught in it, and he grabbed a sterile pair of tweezers. “Remember, stay still.”

She shut her eyes and nodded, fisting her hands in her lap.  He carefully cleaned any bits he could see out of the wound, ignoring the tears of pain that gathered in the corners of her eyes and the harsh line of her mouth.  He set the tiny bits on the end table to see if he could analyze any of them later for clues. He swiped around it again, just to see if he could start seeing the edges, and when he was satisfied, he opened the suture kit.

This would have to do for now, until he could maybe get John Watson in here.

He paused, needle hovering in the air.  He wasn’t steady right now, and this was her _face_.  He happened to be very fond of this face.  He hoped to look at it for years to- No. Don’t think about that.  Not right now. The pain was making his self control slip.

Sebastian was on his way to fetch Sherlock right now.  He might be able to kill two birds with the same stone and get the good doctor as well as the consulting detective.  But here was too personal, too… He studied Molly’s face, pinched with pain, and decided to stop caring. He’d been to Sherlock’s home, rifled through his belongings, it was only fair to give Sherlock a little glimpse of how the better half lived.

Sebastian came back into the room quietly, and stopped at the door, eyes flicking between Jim and Molly.  “Am I… interrupting?”

Molly leaned away from Jim, ever so slightly, “No, not at all.  Jim was just…” she gestured to her head wound.

He nodded, then looked at Jim, “Boss, more employees showed up. The cleaning crew are handling the living room, and they’ll want to come in here next.  I still have the recorder, but I sent Smithy and Rogers to collect Holmes.” He eyed the two of them, “I told him to bring the good doctor, baby and all if there’s no sitter.”

Jim leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, “You read my mind, Sebby.  Call…” His eyes opened and looked dreamily at the ceiling, “Call Eduardo. He’s good with kids.”  He closed his eyes and relaxed.

“Who’s Eduardo?” Molly asked, bewildered.

“Jim’s favorite shopping assistant.  And he’s right, that guy is great with babies.”  Sebastian turned and shut the door softly behind him.

“Don’t you dare sleep.”  Molly’s voice was threaded with steel.  “Not until Saoirse is back. You don’t get to rest.”  She stood, unsteady, “You stole us, Jim, because you said you could keep us _safe_.”

He didn’t open his eyes, “I know.  I appear to have miscalculated. You have my apologies.”  He flung one arm over his face, ignoring the protesting of burning muscles.  “To be fair, when I get her back, I’m going to give you all of their bodies to butcher how you please.”  He tapped his foot. “ _When_ I get her back. Remember that.  When.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John, Rosie in tow, showed up fifteen minutes later.  Rosie was handed off to one of the cleaning ladies, and then Eduardo as he stepped through the door two minutes after them.  They went into Saoirse’s room to go through her old toys, Eduardo quite practiced at avoiding suspicious liquids and sharp objects in the Moriarty household.

John sat in front of Molly first, face schooled as the guarded polite mask of a doctor in a war zone.  He and Molly stared at each other for a minute, and Molly recognized an expression she hadn’t seen since secondary school, when she’d broken up with a boy who’s sister had been in her little clique, and some of the girls had sided more with her than with Molly.  He wore the face of someone who knew Molly hadn’t done anything wrong, but had still hurt the feelings of someone he cared about. There was a line in the sand, Molly on one side, Sherlock on the other. John was very clear about where he stood.

John was also a professional, so the first thing he did was snap on a pair of rubber gloves and have her turn the wounded side of her face to the light.

He whistled lowly, taking in the sizable gash.  “This is pretty impressive, Molly, and is going to leave quite a mark.”

“She’ll be seeing a plastic surgeon as soon as this is all over,” Jim muttered, from where he was glaring at Sherlock as the man’s eyes darted wildly around the room.  He was wearing large noise-cancelling headphones and had the recording playing loudly. He was typing frantically into Jim’s laptop, Jim himself watching the screen to make sure Sherlock didn’t wander off into files he wasn’t supposed to touch.

“Will she.” Molly muttered tartly, eyes on Sherlock’s long fingers as they blurred across the keyboard.

Sherlock and Molly had pointedly not stolen glances at each other when they first came in, but now everyone was focused on one goal.  Get Saoirse and Severin back from harm.

John quietly cleaned Molly’s face, offhandedly complimenting Jim on his attempt to clean it up the first time.  Jim ignored him.

It took eight tidy stitches to make Molly’s face look a little more normal, and John recommended she take some pain medication and anti-inflammatories, then he moved on to Jim.

He threw away his gloves and automatically snapped on a new pair, pulling up to Jim’s side and eyeing him critically.  “Mr. Moriarty, if you would-”

“No.”

John’s brow furrowed.  “I need to check out your-”

“No.”  Jim sank a little in his seat, shoulders going up around his ears.

“Jim,” Molly said softly, “you have to be ready.”  She took a deep breath in. “Please. I need you at your best, for Saoirse.”  John stared at her openly, and even Sherlock paused, brow going up in disbelief.  Her tone was the most polite she’d been with him since...well. Since before Saoirse has been conceived.

Frowning petulantly, Jim sat up straighter and snarled, “ _Fine_ , Mummy Hooper.”  He yanked open the collar of his shirt, “At least two small lacerations on my throat, minor bruising, probably major head trauma and minor abrasions on my knees, elbows, upper back and probably my face.”

John tested his pupil reactiveness, cleaned the blood off his face, put some butterfly plasters on his throat and shrugged, “You’re… completely correct about the extent of your injuries.  I’m pretty sure you aren’t hemorrhaging into your brain, and normally I’d recommend rest and observation, but under the circumstances… I’ll say that I’ll continue to keep and eye on you and check in while Sherlock is here, and then you should probably take a nice, long nap.”  He eyed Molly suddenly, a small blush rising to his cheeks, “Uh, that nap should probably be _alone_ , you don’t want-”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Molly shrieked right as Jim pouted, “Well, there go all of my plans.”

Sherlock snarled, “Would everyone shut up?”

The quiet lasted for about three minutes, before Jim murmured to John, “You should probably go find Severin.”

“Why?” John whispered back.

“He was tasered with a tampered stun gun and had to take stimulants to stand.  He’ll be going down right about now.” As if on cue, there was a yelp from outside and the sound of something heavy thumping to the marble floor.

John sighed and grabbed a fresh pair of gloves.  “On my way.”

Sherlock threw off his headphones and grabbed a marker, striding over to the only wall not covered in books, a pale cream with a slightly glossy finish.  He immediately started writing on it.

Jim didn’t stop him.

“I analyzed the audio.  Wherever they are, judging by the echo and reverb, every surface is concrete.  Narrows it down, but not by much.” He frantically scribbled the rough dimensions of a room.  “The time between the kidnapping, the changing of the vehicle, assuming they did it one other time to be sensible, and the phone call is relatively short.  They’re within an hour of London, I’m sure of it.” He stepped back, thinking. “The knife was one the caller held comfortably in their hand, and you gave the physical description as being average height, potentially a penknife, probably not a hunting knife, the pattern of the scraping sound indicates a pattern, potentially a code or a series of letters.”  He paused, tapping the pen against the wall. “The scissors definitely cut through something, probably hair judging by the sound of the blade against the fibers.”

He tapped the pen faster, rapping out a pattern.

He paused.

“Check outside.”

He turned, but Jim had already strode out the door, Molly quick behind him.

“With me,” Jim bellowed, walking quickly to the door.  Four guards surrounded him and Molly. He looked at her incredulously, “Go back inside.”

“Shut up,” she snapped back, “If this has anything to do with Saoirse, I want to be there.”  Her face twisted into something between annoyance and disdain. “Don’t forget that I’m a forensic pathologist.  Technically, I’m going to be more useful than you.”

He muttered as they loaded into the elevator, “Only if we find a corpse.”

Molly swayed on her feet for a moment, blaming it on the sudden compression as the elevator whooshed down.  She stuffed part of her that was a mother into a box and locked it in a closet, determined to flex her professional muscles for the first time in months.  If Saoirse’s body was downstairs, she’d use everything she’d spent a third of her life learning to destroy every single one of them and all of the evidence that would point to her.

When they stepped outside, there was a box in the middle of the street.

From there, Molly only remembered bits and pieces.  Sebastian told her that she’d been very professional, very calm, but Molly didn’t remember that.  She remembered the box. She remembered Jim discreetly calling Sally Donovan, who had come quietly.

She remembered when they’d opened the box.

Now, she was in a makeshift lab in her bedroom, with two long plaits of her daughter’s hair in evidence bags, performing the sloppiest DNA analysis since the first lab in school when they’d been introduced.  She did the test as a courtesy, but she knew the hair was Saoirse’s. She’d put the braids in that morning. They still had the bright pink Hello Kitty elastic bands on the end of each plait. Molly absently ran her hand over the strands through the thick plastic.

She didn’t cry, not yet.  She didn’t feel much at all.

When the test was done, she didn’t look at it.  Jim came in two hours later and set the results aside.  He hesitated, then put one hand on her shoulder. The Molly of yesterday would have flinched, but the Molly of today didn’t react at all.

“We’re getting her back.  Sherlock is working on it, the good doctor motivating him.  Sally is... here.” His hand squeezed her shoulder. “I give you my word, Molly Hooper.”

“Why,” her voice cracked suddenly, “Why didn’t you leave us alone.”  She paused, eyes misting over and locked on the braids. “When you were dead, Jim, we were happy.”  Her fingers pressed into the plastic. “When you were dead, nobody noticed her.” He didn’t move, didn’t contradict her.  Her voice got low, “If she dies, so do you. You’ll put another bullet through your brain, but this time it’s going to stick.”

His hand slid off her shoulder, and he hesitated before he nodded.

Was this what it was, to have a family?  To have People? To give them unprecedented freedom to threaten his life, and know he deserved it?

Jim swallowed and turned to leave the room, before he did something stupid like make a declaration he couldn’t take back.

 

* * *

 

Saoirse curled up in Severin’s arms, rubbing her face into his chest.  He had one arm wrapped around her, holding her securely in place, while the other held a large section of cloth torn from his t-shirt to an oozing wound on his face.  She was missing one of her shoes. She’d kicked it at a masked man who had tried to grab her, and he’d raised his hand to hit her. Severin had jumped in and punched the him in the face so hard it had gone concave.

Severin had tried to fight off all of them before he’d been struck unconscious.  The people, two guards holding heavy guns and a person in strange, formless clothing and a mask that distorted their voice, had come into the dark room they were locked in to cut off Saoirse’s hair.  

When they left, dragging the body of the man Severin had killed and clutching a bag full of her hair, they’d locked the door behind them.  It had been nothing but silence since.

Saoirse was tired, she was hungry, and she was so scared.  She tucked her bare foot closer to her body and hiccuped. Severin cautiously ran one hand over her short, choppy, imprecisely cut hair.

He rubbed her back, “I’m here, Saoirse.  I’ll protect you.”

She looked at him with tired eyes, “I’m not a baby, I’m six years old.  Almost seven. You don’t have to lie.”

He chuckled, “I forgot you’re a Moriarty, for a second.  Alright, let’s go over a plan.” She nodded fiercely, and he gave a small smile despite himself.  “If you have a chance to run, do it.” She nodded again, smaller this time. “The easiest way out is always going to be up.  A duct, open a panel in the ceiling, you’re small and you can fit. Feel for fresh air. When you get out, run. Hide. Get to a phone and call the police.  I know they’ll be able to get one of the Holmes boys to come take you."

“What about you?” Her voice was soft and only wavered a little.

He closed his eyes, “Don’t worry about me, little bird.  I can take care of myself.”

Saoirse slid her arms as far around his torso as they could go, whispering, “Liar.”

Severin held her quietly for a time, then quietly, “Your father is one of the most frightening, intelligent, well connected men I’ve ever met. If anyone is going to find us, it’s going to be him.”

He paused.

“Oh, and I don’t ever want to meet your mom when she’s as angry as I think she is right now.”

Saoirse laughed a little, but sniffled when she stopped.

As quiet settled over them, Saoirse wished she could believe that Severin would be enough to protect her.

To distract herself, she looked around the room.  It was… dull. Concrete, all over, unfinished, with no writing on the walls and only one battered steel door.  There were pipes in the ceiling and down one wall, and the sound of something dripping from far away. “Where _are_ we,” she murmured.

She felt Severin shift beneath her, “I have no idea, to be honest with you.  It felt like we didn’t go too far, but we could be literally anywhere. This is…” He glanced around, “pretty much any basement in any large building in London.  Most places have these unfinished rooms, leftover from construction and forgotten about. Normally there’d be some kind of storage, but looks like they cleaned this out just for us.”  He shifted up, setting Saoirse onto the ground next to him.

He stood, pacing the corners of the room and peering at the floor.  When he went the entire length, he started again, but knocking on the walls this time. He sucked his back teeth for a second, staring at fixed points in space, before he came back and sat down next to her again, silently.  She crawled back into his lap, cuddling to stay warm, and asked him, “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” he said, with a frown on his face.  “I didn’t see any evidence that there’d been anything in this room other than us.  No scuff marks, no damp patches, not even any dust. The walls sound strange and I…” He turned his head sharply, as if listening for something.  He leaned down and whispered, very quietly, “I think we’re in a false room. Whoever they are, they build this specifically to hold us. It’s fake.” He paused again, as if considering, then even quieter, “It also means I have absolutely no idea where we are at all.”

Two hours later, one of the guards threw in two water bottles.  They were sealed, and Severin gave each one a sniff and a sip, waited five minutes, then gave Saoirse one to drink.  What he’d missed was the incredibly small puncture wounds in the plastic that had been carefully melted and smoothed out.

Two hours after that, he was holding an unconscious Saoirse to his chest, struggling to stay awake himself.  He could barely move, whatever they’d put in the water had moved quickly. Saoirse was alive, but her breathing was shallow, and her pulse felt quick and fluttery, like a bird. Or maybe that was his?

He felt like he was floating, and when the remaining guard and masked person came in, they crouched down in front of him, smoothing a hank of blonde hair out of his face.  He couldn’t do anything more than narrow his eyes, and he could barely understand the garbled “Oh, the things he’ll do for you…” before his eyes rolled back in his head and he was going down and down and down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think.


	7. Love's Gonna Get You Killed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not useless, Molly Hooper, even though it feels that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Lots of violence in this chapter!

Once, when he was small, Jim had fallen into the sea off the coast of Ireland.  His little body had been nearly smashed against sharp rocks before a bystander had jumped in and saved him, but Jim still remembered the icy bite of the cold, unforgiving ocean.  He still remembered the incredible power of the current, and how strangely silent everything was below the surface. He’d felt smaller and more helpless than usual, a toy being tossed around by beings beyond his comprehension.

He felt like that now, and he hated it.

Everything was slipping beyond his control.

Saoirse and Severin, locked away by someone who wanted _him_ to solve a puzzle, who gave impossible clues, who didn’t want material wealth.  James Moriarty didn’t solve puzzles, he _set_ them.  He didn’t give _answers_ , he set expectations.

Molly Hooper, a mouse turned into a snake turned into a wildcard.  He wanted to kiss her neck and also break it. He wanted to shove her to the side, set her in Sherlock’s arms, and focus on his heir.  He wanted to tuck her under him and protect her forever, keep her safe and warm and be able to feel her pulse whenever the desire struck him.

Sebastian Moran, a toy he no longer used, now reduced to simply his dangerous dog on a leash.  A person he didn’t know much about other than he was good at killing people and he loved his brother.  He’d been sleeping with him for years and couldn’t even be bothered to find out his favorite color, and that had begun to bother him more than he was able to articulate.

Jim was used to being the master of his universe.  Everyone jumped when he said. Everything lined up perfectly, ready for him to knock it all down.

And now, here, he was sitting in a room, staring at his mobile phone, while Sherlock Holmes used his magnificent brain for the one thing it was truly meant for.  Deduction. Solving crime. It was curious, to him, that he hadn’t mentioned Molly and hadn’t even so much as looked in her direction. His entire attitude, his tone, his stance, all of it, nothing was affected by emotion.  Sherlock had ceased to care about Molly and Saoirse as humans, he could tell, and now he only cared about The Game. He cared about stepping into the spider’s parlor, plucking at his web and figuring out what the spider could not.

If time was not of the essence, Jim would have shot him right there and done all of the legwork himself.

Under his skin was itching, he felt eyes on the back of his neck, he felt like all the power he’d spent his life building was slipping through his fingers like sand.  It made him feel hot and itchy under his skin.

He’d always been so changeable, so willing to do the unexpected to shake things up, but what move could he make right now that wouldn’t result in someone’s death?  Someone he cared about, he amended mentally. Most of London could die and he wouldn’t care. But if Saoirse died? Molly was going to skin him. The thought both terrified and aroused him.

If everyone lived through this, he was determined to try and court her.  If that didn’t work, he’d at least try to seduce her. Just to get it out of his system, he lied to himself.

Speak of the devil and she shall appear, Molly walked into the room.  She held up a sheet of paper. “I found something.”

Sherlock didn’t turn around, but Jim stood up.  He strode over, hand out. “What is it?”

She held the paper slightly out of his reach, frowning at him.  “A high concentration of salt. Sea salt, enough that she must have been hit with some spray.  More than one would find in London. And... “ She paused for dramatic effect, holding up a glass vial with a single strand of seaweed in it.  “She must have tucked it into her braid,” Molly’s voice was full of fierce pride. “She learned that from a case I had once.”

Sherlock didn’t turn around, but his rich voice was amused, “She was fascinated by it.  Cases and post mortems were her fairy tales.” He drew his shoulders up, and Molly looked at him with a painful sort of longing on her face.

He turned around and they stared at each other.  Sherlock looked away first.

Jim cleared his throat, more annoyed than he cared to admit, and snatched both the paper and vial from her hands.  “Right, where’s a beach within an hour of London that has some kind of all-concrete structure?” To himself, he muttered, “Where would I stash these two if it were me? Where-”

He froze.

“Call Sally back from wherever I sent her,” he snapped at nobody in particular.

When none of them moved, he huffed and ran out by himself.

After he had gone, Sherlock’s brows drew together.  “Why didn’t I hear a tide in the audio?” He turned back to the desk, picking up the headphones again.  He didn’t look at Molly.

She quietly turned and followed Jim.

 

* * *

 

Saoirse woke up in a glass tank.  It was clean but smelled a bit musty, and Severin took up most of the floor.  She stayed still and quiet, tucked against his side. She listened, but couldn’t hear anything.  When she sat up, slowly, there was a blinding flash and a soft pop.

When she cleared the spots out of her vision, she had to bite back her whimper.

There were a dozen cameras pointed toward the tank, some with blinking lights and long cords coming out of them.

“Severin,” she whispered, shaking the assassin on the shoulder.  He was limp, unresponsive, and barely breathing.

She looked up, nervously, and saw the large greyscale screens behind the cameras.  Her own frightened eyes surrounded by choppy dark hair stared back at her. Wild and afraid.

Staring into her own face, she hardened the set of her jaw and narrowed her eyes.  She was a Hooper, but beyond that, she was a Moriarty. She wasn’t afraid.

She stared at herself in the too-large screen until she believed it.

Then a valve opened, dumping freezing cold water into the tank and she screamed.

There was a flash.

Severin still didn’t wake up.

 

* * *

 

Jim stared at the note in his hand, blocky, childlike letters mocking him with a ‘NICE TRY, MR MORIARTY, BUT NOT NICE ENOUGH.  WHAT DO I WANT?’

A mechanism had turned over and before he could shoot it, pressed a button.  There was a whir, then a small printer on a decaying wooden desk slowly spit out a picture.  Jim cautiously stepped forward, Sally at his back, and reached out to grab it with two fingers.

“Be careful, yeah?” Sally breathed nervously.  He didn’t dignify her with a response.

It was Saoirse, frightened, blurred, as water poured down on top of her.  On the floor, a dark shape that could only be Severin. He wasn’t reacting to the water at all.  The quality was poor, grainy and pixelated, clearly not meant to be blown up that large. It was greyscale, tinted slightly bluish-green, and he absently cracked the bones in his neck while he absorbed it.

Jim didn’t realize that he was breathing unevenly until Sally came forward cautiously and pried his fingers off the picture.

She was talking to John on the phone in low words, waving the paper around, before Jim let out a sound like a wounded animal.

He pulled out his Beretta and turned, Sally throwing herself out of the way as he emptied his clip into the wall opposite the printer.  She ducked down and tried to maneuver toward the exit.

Jim snarled in a deep, inhumane voice, “ _Let’s go_.”

She tried to pipe up, “Moriarty, there might be-”

He turned on his heel, pointing the gun at her head, she flinched and brought up her arms, his face contorted into something between rage and fear, “No.  There’s nothing _you_ can do.”  He pointed the gun at… nothing, that’s right, Sebastian was still _injured_ , body broken beyond function for the current moment, so he swung the barrel of the gun back around to Sally, who didn’t flinch this time.  “Call Sherlock. Tell him to get down here.”

He strode away, shoving his gun into jacket and pulling out his phone, sending a picture of the image that had printed out to Sherlock.  He didn’t wait for a response before yanking open the driver side door.

Sally didn’t even close her door before he slammed his foot on the gas.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock got a text, and then turned the screen from her.

“Is it her?” Molly asked quietly, hands clasped in front of her.  She longed for the armor of her lab coat. Something to help her feel professional, distance herself, something to hide herself in.  But she didn’t, she had nothing to hide behind until this was all over and Saoirse was back in her arms. Alive and well, or being unloaded out of a body bag. “Is she dead, Sherlock?”

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ and slid his phone into his pocket.   _Not yet_ , she heard in her mind.

“Then who was it?” Her voice was quiet steel, but she knew her eyes were large and haunted, beseeching for any hint.

Sherlock was quiet, busying himself with sorting through a pile of books, before he flatly answered, “A clue, Molly Hooper.”  He turned cold eyes on her, whispering in a dark voice, “I told you, I _told_ you, this is a den of wolves.  I said I would not be here to save you, yet here I am.”  He spread his arms, demonstrating his occupation of Moriarty’s space, and let them fall heavily back to his sides, “Am I living up to your expectations, Molly?  Are you going to lavish praise upon me now?” He stepped closer to her, practically growling, “I’m _here_ because Mycroft forced me to be.”  He stepped even closer, as Molly’s eyes darkened and deepened.  “I’m not here for _you_ or for _the child_ or even for _my nemesis_.  I’m here to satisfy a contractual obligation for my brother and once I have, I will be so glad to never see you again.”  He reached out with one long, elegant hand and laid it flat against her sternum, driving her out of the room. “Now if you want to see your daughter alive again, you will leave me in _peace_ until I am free to go.”

He’d driven her to just beyond the doors of the study and with one last long look in her eyes, slammed the door in her face.

She was stunned.  Sherlock… had looked so terribly sad.

She hated herself for thinking of anything but Saoirse, but Molly couldn’t stop the stray thought that had slithered across her brain.

_Jim never looked sad like that_.

 

* * *

 

She was right.

Jim wasn’t sad, he was angry.  He didn’t cry, he got revenge. He wouldn’t have stared longingly into her eyes, because he had shit he had to do.

Right now, he was standing in a second chamber, staring at a second note, watching a second picture print out, his mind whirring as fast as possible to comprehend the sheer magnitude of what had been designed specifically to contain Saoirse and torture him.  This took time. This took patience. This took an absolutely dedication to the singular goal of _burning the heart out of him._

He understood now.  For every wrong mistake, every false assumption, the masked kidnapper was going to drown Saoirse in disappointment.  Every time that button was pushed, it released a new wave of water, snapped a picture, and send it to the printer.

It was diabolical and glorious and he felt the tiniest amount aroused by the person who had set this all up.  He considered, just for a moment, calling up the littlest Holmes and jeering her into solving it for him, but tossed that idea to the side.  She’d folded in on herself, collapsed like a dead star, after the end of her little reunion. Sentiment had made her _useless_ and he snarled.

Trying to take Jim down by using his _sentiment_ against him was like trying to capture a roaring beast and stuffing it into a cage made of _paper_.  Useless, stupid, and a very nice way to lose a lot of limbs.

Sally was outside of the room and Jim let his eyes rove the concrete walls and ceiling mindlessly.

The first location had been an abandoned bunker by the seaside.

The second was the ruins of an old house near an estuary.

Salt and concrete and quiet.  The triangle of requirements, the trifecta of answers.

He drew his brows down as he thought, pondered and dissected what he knew so far.  He knew he’d done something to personally offend this person, even if he still had no idea how.  Really, he was such a bad man who had done so _many_ bad things, nobody could really expect him to remember them all.

He felt a snarl growing on his face.  The longer it took him to think, the closer Saoirse came to drowning.  Drowning. He stared at the picture again. A tank. A tank on squat metal legs with thick glass walls and he couldn’t see any other part of it, any other part of the room, he had no _idea_ …

_What do I want?_

_They’re just people.  Just lives. You sell those aaaall the time._

_What would I do with money?_

_What do I want?_

_What do I want?_

Jim sat, pondered and rubbed his hands over the cheap copy paper.

_What do I want?_

 

* * *

 

Saoirse had propped Severin up in the corner, the water up to her knees and almost to his chest.  It was cold, freezing, and she was shivering. The joints in her hands and feet were aching.

“Wake up, please,” she hated how quiet and small and frightened her voice was, how _young_.  She would be seven in four months and she hated sounding like a baby.  She’d had two lessons about being in captivity, she’d learned that being kidnapped was more or less a reality in her new world.

If she was honest, in her old world too.  In this one, at least she had a measure of preparation.

But not for this.  Not for what amounted to torture.  Not for being locked in a _tank_ with water being dumped in at random intervals.  She’d gotten immediately that the flash of one of the cameras and the water were connected.  She wasn’t sure what the trigger was, if it was something she was doing or if it was an outside entity that she couldn’t see, but it was keeping her on edge.  The adrenaline in her system was both keeping her awake and making her extremely tired.

Severin’s head lolled against his shoulder, pulse slightly stronger and his breathing even.  He was shivering from the cold, his skin incredibly pale. It made all of his little scars stand out starkly.  A lifetime of pain, death by a thousand cuts. Saoirse sloshed her way over to him, rubbing tears out of her eyes, and sat in the water, tucking herself up to his side.  “Please don’t die,” she whispered.

There wasn’t any water for a long time after that.

 

* * *

 

Jim stood in the abandoned house for what felt like hours before he got a text from Sherlock.

_Nothing.  SH_

He took his time sending a message back, his forehead drawn together and his mouth turned down as his fingers slowly tapped on the screen.

_Disappointing. Xoxo Jim_

He wondered what the kidnapper would do if he refused to play.  If he sat down right here and didn’t move.

He couldn’t afford it, but he needed some kind of… he needed to push the kidnapper into action.  Everything he was doing was based on fear, on his own reactions and thinking too fast.

He needed to regain a measure of control.

Ignoring Sally’s frantic whispers, he closed his eyes, sat down, folded his legs and waited.

She eventually grew quiet, resting her back against the creaking wooden all and tracing Sebastian’s slack form with one finger.

“You like him.”  It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t move at all.  He didn’t even open his eyes.

Sally studied him, “Yeah.  He’s a good bloke.”

“I pay him to kill people.”  Jim opened his eyes and looked for her reaction.  She didn’t give one. “I paid him to torture a Saudi to death because he didn’t give me my due.  He started with the _toes_ and never questioned why.  I paid him to assassinate one of the women before the trial all those years ago, because evidence suggested she wouldn’t bow to threats against her loved ones.  They never _did_ find the body for the poor lass.  I paid him to make sure of that.” Sally didn’t move at all.  “I pay him because he’s _very_ good.  His body count is probably higher than the average cemetery.  Do you still like him?”

She tilted her head, her tight curls bouncing.  “Why are you telling me this?” Her grip on the picture got a little tighter.

His dark eyes bore into her.  Softly, he whispered, “Do you still like him, despite all of the terrible things he’s done?”

“I’ve shot men.”  Her response was flat and instant.  “I shot one man in the head on my first week on the job.  I’ve killed before, and I’ve gotten _paid_ for it.  Does that make me any different from him?”  She looked away and muttered, “Law aside, intent aside, a dead body is a dead body at the end of the day,”  She ran her hands up her arms and sighed, “He’s not a bad person, if he was he wouldn’t go so out of his way for Saoirse.”

Jim couldn’t argue with that.  Well, he could have, but he was already bored of the conversation and couldn’t be bothered.

He turned his head forward and they sat in silence for another twenty minutes before his phone rang again.

He silently put it on speaker and set the phone in front of him, setting himself back in lotus position.

There was a beat of silence where the kidnapper had clearly expected a greeting, before a grumpy, “You’re getting _boring_ ,” came through.

He smiled and retained his silence.

“Do I need to make this more exciting for you?  Run a current through the water, perhaps?” There the ominous crackle of electricity on the other end.  He considered the phone with a distasteful look.

“You,” he pronounced slowly, “are cheating.”

There was no sound but filtered breathing.

“You gave me a riddle with no answer,” he said silkily, “a trail of nothing but red herrings with no way to find you.  You don’t want anything, not money, not my pain. It’s no fun if you don’t give them a chance. A little dot of hope to work towards.”  He clucked his tongue, “You’ve done poorly, and I’m disappointed.”

There was a low growl, an angry screech, “You’re just too _STUPID_ , James Moriarty!  You’re _dull_ and boring and predictable!”  Muttering, “How could I have ever thought you’d be able to solve the puzzle?  How could I have even-” A sigh, and then silence. “Alright, you’ll come to me.  I’ll _tell_ you.”

There was a quiet noise, fabric and flesh hitting the floor.  Sally was down. He felt a pinch in his neck.

“I’m at _home_.”

A figure in all black was tucking their blowgun back in a long case at their waist as his body instantly felt heavy and he lost the ability to sit upright.  The last thing he could do was curl one edge of his mouth up in a smile as he felt two men scoop him up, then he just faded away in the safe knowledge of _I’m coming, Saoirse._

 

* * *

 

When Jim next woke, he was in a service corridor.  Unfinished concrete, exposed pipes, a general dampness he found unpleasant.  He was sprawled in the middle of the walkway. Annoyed, he muttered, “I at least deserved to be handcuffed to a chair or something.”  He was one of the most dangerous men in London, he deserved to be secured to something.

He fought his way to his feet.  Once the echoes of his struggle faded away, he listened.  There was almost no noise, only a slight drip from a leaky pipe.  No shuffling of feet anywhere, no whirring of computers, not even a breeze from ventilation system.  No sign of Sally.

There were, however, two slight grooves in the cement, probably from carts that frequented the area during working hours.  The corridor had a slight downward angle, so Jim tilted his head and followed the trail with his eyes. The grooves ended at a set of pale green battered double doors, but faintly split off to go down another, darker hallway.

He ran his hands over his pockets, finding they’d been emptied.  No phone, no knives, not even the first picture he’d folded neatly into eighths and slipped into his breast pocket on his jacket.  He looked at the walls, trying to discern a loose piece of piping, maybe, something he could quietly wiggle free and have as a makeshift weapon.

Whoever maintained this place did it entirely too well.  Everything was sturdily built, not even a loose wire he could wind between his hands like a garrote.

He balled his hands into fists and suddenly didn’t care.  He’d been riding the cusp of his rigid control the entire time.  He longed, longed, to let go. To find these people and rip them apart like an _animal_.  Fists, teeth, fingernails, he longed to dismember them while they were alive and _screaming_.  Jim wasn’t strong but he was scrappy.  He knew how to grapple, catch someone twice his size off guard and do the opposite of what they would expect.  And, as ever, Jim fought dirty. He just needed the element of surprise on his side.

Smirking, he slipped his shoes off and padded silently down the dark side hallway, disappearing into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock burst back into the flat, his lips very thin and his eyes bright.  “We missed something. We must have.” John, his rock, steady at his side. “There was no _tide_ , Molly, not in the audio.  If they were close enough for her hair to get that much salt in it, then they would have been close enough for the waves to be heard through the walls.”

Molly, who had been pacing the apartment and staring at a bedridden Sebastian who might have _permanent_ brain damage, turned to glare at him.  She was, in this situation, useless. She’d played her part, now Sherlock and Jim were playing theirs, and there was nothing left for her to do but wring her hands and wait for deliverance.  The tension was ripping her apart inside. “How much time have you wasted? You know as well as I do, Sherlock, the chances of recovering her al-” she stopped mid-sentence and blinked back tears, clearing her throat and trying again, “alive, are very, very slim once she’s been taken to secondary location.”

He stepped very close to her, “Let me see her hair, Molly Hooper.”  There was nothing behind his eyes but the brightness of an interesting case.  He was high off of the chase, and she knew she couldn’t stand in his way.

She stepped back silently and lead the both of them to her bedroom-come-laboratory.  Sherlock had the good sense to not mock the pitiful setup as he sat in front of her desk and carefully lifted one of the braids out of it’s bag with a pair of spring-loaded kitchen tongs.

Then, quietly, not once complaining about the makeshift equipment, Sherlock Holmes got to work.

 

* * *

 

After padding through the back service corridors, dark and dank as they were, Jim came to a single door, painted a pale pinkish-beige, that was set slightly ajar.  From inside, a bright incandescent light was pouring out. He pressed himself against the far wall, listening. The cold from the wall was seeping through his thin blazer, but it was soothing against the mass of bruises on his back.

Before long, a familiar filtered voice hissed, “He must be awake by now, go check on him.  Drag him back here if he’s been too stupid to find it himself.”

He felt a smile stretch across his face.  He let all of his muscles relax for a moment, then crept closer to the door.  Ready to pounce.

He hadn’t fought off a battalion of men in far too long.  This was bound to be fun.

The instant a person dressed in all black slipped through the door, he struck like a viper, slamming his knuckles into the larynx.  He ripped the handgun from the holster at their waist, conveniently equipped with a silencer, and shot them in the delicate area under the jaw before they do anything else but raise their arms in a weak parody of defense.

He slammed open the door and opened fired on anyone dressed in black.  There were angry screams and bullets flying, the noise a chaotic cacophony, and Jim got one guard in the center mass, another in the face, and a third in the neck, all while getting nothing more than shallow grazes that barely hurt.

In the center of the room, there was a tank, large and showy, nearly full of water.  Saoirse was floating on her back at the very top, Severin treading water next to her, one hand braced against the top as more water flowed in from a series of pipes coming from the ceiling.

A lot of cameras were facing the tank, all of their red recording lights blinking.

Saoirse turned her head at the sound, saw him, and screamed, _“DADDY!”_ She panicked and floundered for a moment, her face dipping under, but Severin put his free hand under her head and shoved her back up.

Severin’s head snapped towards him and he bellowed, “Boss!  It’s locked, Boss, but there’s code, a set of four numbers! Get it out of that one, with the mask!”  His head went under for a moment before he popped back up and yelled, “BEHIND YOU!” Saoirse, who had been silent and almost meditative before, was splashing around and whimpering now.  A genius, a Moriarty, but still just a child. Severin hooked her arms around his neck and treaded water for the both of them.

Jim turned just in time to get decked in the face by the masked kidnapper.  It snapped his head back and hurt like a bitch, but he’d stopped caring about pain about twelve hours ago.  He simply swung his head forward, slamming it right into the mask. He was beyond words, beyond emotion, beyond anything but the swift execution of a threat against himself and everyone he held dear.  He’d gotten the point where his tunnel vision only accepted one outcome, and that was the total elimination of the person trying to kill his heir. If it killed him too, that was just a sacrifice he had to make to keep her safe.

The visor cracked a little and there was a yelp from inside, and Jim felt a trickle of blood travel down his face, but he just snarled and stalked forward, forcing the kidnapper back.

One of the guards, on the floor from a bullet that shattered his femur, raised a gun and, almost without looking, Jim shot him in the chest to put him down for good.

“Don’t you want the code, Moriarty?  You’ll never get them out without it.”  The voice was still garbled, but unexpected.  How _cute._ They thought they were _untouchable_.  They thought they were _safe_ from his jaws.  He just gave an insane grin with all of his teeth on display, walking the kidnapper toward a darkened corner, and schooling his face into a frightening blankness, Jim herded them toward a bundle of cables.  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he might have seen something that looked like a pile of Sally Donovan tied up at the edge of the room, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the kidnapper. The look on his face must have been terrible to behold, because the kidnapper couldn’t regain their balance as they tripped over the cables, arms wheeling, and Jim reached out and gave them a hard shove on the sternum.  As they went down, Jim pounced and straddled the slim hips, giving two quick punches to the solar plexus to wind them and let him hook his fingers under the edge of the black fabric.

Jim ripped the mask off of the struggling mass beneath him and saw… a soft, feminine face, blonde, with hateful grey eyes.  Pale skin, sharp nose, a smattering of freckles that spoke of a childhood spent in the sunshine. A scar from the corner of the left eye up into the hairline, old, white and puckered.

He had no idea who she was.

“Do you remember me now, James Moriarty?” She hissed, and nope, her voice was completely average and ringing no bells.

He frowned and tilted his head, “No.”  He shrugged, lifted his stolen gun, and pressed the barrel to the middle of her forehead.  “Not like it matters anyway.”

“Wait!” she yelped, fear coloring her tone for the first time, “Don’t you want the code?  The final piece of the puzzle? Don’t you want to save them?”

He considered her for a moment, “Are you just going to give it to me?”

A sneer that marred the rather pretty face, confidence returning, “It’s the date you murdered my father.  The month and day. Remember now?”

He chuckled, deep and cruel, before reaching out and quickly bopping her on the end of her upturned little nose with his index finger.  “You,” he said in a way that might have been friendly with anyone else, “were almost good at this.”

Stunned, she didn’t say anything, only tried to catch his finger between her sharp little teeth and tear it off.

“Well,” he drawled, sitting back and absently wiping his hand on his filthy pants, “I’ve killed a great many fathers in my day, and I couldn’t say which one was yours.  So, no, I don’t remember, and this game has gotten _boring._ ”  Her face curdled into rage and fury and she tried to jerk herself into a sitting position.

He pulled the trigger and blew half her head off.

Jim leaned back on his haunches and tilted his head at an almost inhuman angle.  “Can’t fake _that_.”

_“Boss!”_ Sebastian screamed at him, his voice unbelieving and also furious, “That was our _key!_  What are you doing?”  He thrashed in the tank and punched the wall with one fist, the other anchored against the ceiling again.  Saoirse held onto him tightly, her eyes squeezed shut and her face turned up to keep the water out of her nose.

“Don’t worry, Daddy’s here.”  He said flatly, mostly to himself.  Jim grabbed the handgun from the waist of the woman on the ground and fired all of the rounds into the bottom corner furthest from Saoirse and Severin, who both flinched, Severin making sure Saoirse was safely behind him.  The heavy glass cracked, but didn’t break.

Jim snarled and gave an inhuman scream, grabbing another gun and shooting the corner until the trigger clicked uselessly.  He threw the body of the gun at the weak spot. It clattered uselessly and fell to the ground.

A small stream of water found its way through the crack, but it wasn’t enough.

He picked up a metal chair went to work, using the force of his rage, tension and really shitty few days to smash into the weak point over and over until he welcomed the tidal force of the water breaking through the glass and sweeping him backwards.

 

* * *

 

Jim slammed open his own front door to a shouting match between Sherlock and Molly.  As the huge door hit the wall and bounced back, both of their heads snapped towards him.

His suit was ruined, soaking wet, his hair was mussed and he was bleeding from a dozen cuts, scrapes and grazes to his person.

Saoirse was pressed against his chest, shivering, and Severin leaned between Sally Donovan and the entryway, his frame quaking and his teeth chattering.  His leg was trailing blood on the carpeted hallway. Sally’s hair was tangled and enormous, her eyes hooded as she silently supported half of Severin’s weight.  
“Honey,” he said lowly, “I’m _home."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAH WHO SAW THAT COMING??? Let me know your thoughts!! Chapter 8 comes next week!


	8. But Pride’s Gonna Be The Death Of You and You And Me And You…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take your due, Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in this chapter!

Severin stood quietly over Sebastian’s bed, taking in his twin’s peaceful face.  The blankets were tucked up to his neck, a series of wires and tubes growing out from under it.  Man made vines, keeping him alive.

He hadn’t known, until John Watson had quietly debriefed him while taking his vitals, exactly how badly his brother had suffered from the kidnapper’s torture.  He’d taken a stimulant afterwards, then he’d fallen down and simply never gotten back up.

Sebastian had been unresponsive for two weeks, as of that morning.

His bed in Jim’s flat was comfortable, the large windows letting in a lot of cheery late spring sunshine, and Jim had quietly hired a team of nurses to care for him.

The damage to his brain and neurological pathways was extensive.

He might never wake up.

Severin, however, knew his brother deep in his bones.  He’d come back. It might be a long, hard road, but he’d recover.  He wouldn’t die in his sleep, in a _coma_.

“I want you to let him go,” Severin murmured.

“What makes you think I’d do that?”  He’d known Jim had been standing there for the past twenty minutes, watching Severin watch Sebastian.

“Hire Sally to replace him and let him live his own life.”  Severin flicked his eyes behind him, looking at Jim’s still faintly bruised face.  His expression was completely blank, his dark eyes riveted on Severin.

When Jim didn’t speak, stood still as a statue with his hands in his pockets, Severin turned around and gestured angrily at Sebastian, “Are you fucking serious?  I know that face. That’s your stupid ‘I’m Jim Moriarty and I can do whatever I want’ face. He’s given _everything_ for you and yours, and he’s gotten so _little_ in return.  Don’t-” Severin bit his own tongue, running his hands angrily through his hair, and he did a lap around the room while breathing deeply.

Jim’s eyes tracked his circuit, leaning against the wall and crossing one foot in front of the other.

“You,” Severin started, lowly, “are a right, utter bastard.  I held my tongue, all these years, because for whatever reason, Seb was fine with it.  He liked the sex, he liked protecting you, he liked the money, he said it was the best job he could ask for.  But you _ruined_ it.  You… he… He’s a _person_ , Moriarty, a human, and he deserves to go be something else!  He deserves more than to be your assassin. He deserves a chance to taste freedom before he lays down his life for your empire.”

“And what,” Jim said, almost too soft to hear, “about you?”

Severin stopped and closed his eyes, bowing his head.  “I’ll be fine. I have Sally. I have Saoirse. I don’t crave more than this.  I… when you found us, the situation you pulled us out of…” His voice trailed off, and they both looked at Sebastian’s face.  Severin started again, slowly, “I think the terms of our original agreement have been fulfilled, many times over. I’ll pledge myself to your service, exclusively, binding until my death.  Just let him go.”

Jim didn’t say anything, just shifted his empty gaze from Sebastian’s face to the back of Severin’s head.

Severin angrily wiped away a tear at the sound of retreating footsteps.

 

* * *

 

After gently setting a shivering, soaking wet Saoirse in John Watson’s capable arms, the first thing Jim Moriarty had done was kiss Molly Hooper.

It had not been an elegant kiss, nor one that he would remember fondly for years to come as the start of something good and pure, but it had been his lips on hers and at the end of that particular day, that was what had mattered.

He’d grabbed her shoulders too tightly, his fingertips almost leaving bruises, and pulled her in before she could protest.  His lips had blood on them, hers were dry and had chapped bits of skin from where she’d worried them with her teeth, and he’d smashed them together in a way that was really quite uncomfortable.  He’d forced his tongue between her lips and she’d opened automatically to accept him, her hands going to his biceps, curling her nails into his skin through his jacket.

Then, he’d squeezed her once, hard, and pressed his lips against her a second time, before letting her go.

He hadn’t talked to her since.

The second thing he’d done was gleefully thank Sherlock for nothing and order the taller man out of his home. John and Rosie he’d kept until he was satisfied none of his household was in mortal peril from their injuries, he sent them home in one of his cars as well.

Then he’d locked himself in his study and hadn’t come out for ten days.

One thing Jim Moriarty did not do was fail.  He was like water, always finding a way around obstacles laid in his path, able to reduce rocks to sand with enough time and patience. He hadn’t failed, not exactly, since Saoirse was alive and well in his home and once again, under his protection, but that the kidnapping had happened _in his building_ was too much of an insult.

The tank had been in a sub-sub basement.  Under his nose the entire time.

Going back and looking at the set up, she’d even hacked into his internet.  He was _Jim from IT_ and she’d _gotten one over on him_.  A small part of him regretted killing her, going over her plans again, she’d had promise.  The rest of him reveled in a threat disposed of.

He’d spent the past few days trying to find everything he could about the mystery kidnapper, her associates, and how they’d gotten access to the building at all.  He’d run the serial numbers on all of the equipment, the weapons, and the tank had been custom made. There were a heavy handful of companies in England that could make such a set up, but if she had brought it in internationally, that added a few hundred more to his list.  He’d started sending undercover spies to each one, and already three were out. He also started bankrupting the other residents of his building that weren’t directly under his control and buying their apartments for incredibly low costs. The ones he couldn’t bankrupt met with unfortunate, debilitating if not fatal accidents, and he was there to snap up their property immediately.

One more week, and he’d own the entire building.

He’d move his operations to another, posher one and _raze this place to the ground_.

The door to his study opened just a crack, a serious little face topped by a cute pixie cut peeping in.  “Daddy?”

He still hadn’t gotten used to it, the title, and the cautious little lilt to her voice, “Yes, Saoirse?”

She cleared her throat and pushed the rest of herself past the doorway.  “Mum,” she cleared her throat again, and fidgeted, “Mum went swimming.” She looked at him uncertainly, and he closed his laptop to give her his full attention.  She stepped closer, so much less confident than the last time she’d been in that same position. “Can I… can I stay here? With you?”

He tilted his head.  Another, more devastating outcome of the entire debacle was Saoirse’s fear.  She couldn’t stand to be alone, now. Never. She’d refused to leave the apartments to go to school unless Molly and Severin went with her, and she’d eyed Jim pretty hard before deciding that just those two was enough.

Wordlessly, he pushed his chair back and opened his arms.

She ran over and launched herself into them, cuddling onto his lap and pushing her face into his chest.  He folded himself around her and kissed the crown of her head before laying his cheek on her smooth hair.

“How are your studies?” he murmured.  “I haven’t gotten to talk you since you resumed them.”

She shrugged against him, “Fine, I suppose.  The maths is a little hard, and everyone is glad I’m back safe and sound.  Idris said he was going to kill everyone who took me, but I told him you already got them.  He pouted, it was cute. Mum’s been talking about...” She paused, eyes wide, and he realized she’d let something important slip.

He paused, then started slowly rubbing her back, “What has Mum been saying?”  He pitched his voice low and soothing, but Saoirse didn’t relax against him again.

“Saoirse, let me talk with your father.  Alone.” Molly Hooper stood, her face stony, leaning against the entryway to his study.  She was somehow intimidating, with her damp hair hanging listlessly down her back and a slightly ratty pink robe belted at her waist.  Jim had smelled her coming, of course, the chlorine was incredibly strong. Saoirse jumped, then turned to look at her mother with a very guilty expression.

“Mum…” Saoirse started, uncertainly, sliding off of his lap.  Despite his urge to grab her, Jim let her go.

“Go visit Sebastian.  I’ll follow you in a minute.”  Molly’s tone booked no argument, and Saoirse blanched before scampering out of his study on light feet.

Molly closed the door lightly behind her.

They stared at each other in silence.

Jim tilted his head, “I’m not that interested in what you’re planning.  Do you want to get coffee with me?”

Molly blinked and did a double take.  “I… what?”

“Coffee,” he said slowly, “Together.  Like a date.”

Molly studied him.  His expression was giving absolutely nothing away, and that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.  “Why would you want to go on a _date_ with me?”  Her tone conveyed her suspicion, and he rolled his eyes.

“Why, indeed,” he eyed her.  Molly Hooper, he’d decided, was someone he wanted to keep.  She was fierce, intelligent, and hadn’t fallen apart during an event that had made him lose all of his ironheld control.  She was made of sterner stuff, and he let himself imagine, for a moment, what Molly would have done if she’d gotten her hands on the kidnappers before him.  He closed his eyes, savoring the idea of her bloody, calculated, precise revenge.

She’d done the autopsies on the bodies, from the comfort of a vacant apartment kitchen on the fourteenth floor.  She’d taken samples from each, neatly labeled, and handed them off to Sally for DNA testing. They were still waiting for the results.  He’d taken a look at her work, afterward, and had a distant admiration for the neatness of Molly Hooper’s hand. She was a consummate professional, all of the organs tucked back into place, all of the holes stitched up in tidy lines.  Nobody was coming to claim the bodies, but they were keeping them in a deep freezer on the off chance there was an international bounty on any of them.

She’d resisted the urge to maim them, even a little.

“Every time I said you weren’t interesting,” he said abruptly, “I was lying.”  He looked at her closely, seeing if she understood the implications behind his statement.

She blinked at him rapidly, tilting her head and sending a damp hank of frizzy hair cascading over her shoulder.  The smell of the chlorine almost overpowered him, and he made a mental note to get a different company to manage the pool.

The silence stretch for another minute, then Molly dipped her head ever so slightly, “Coffee sounds nice.”  Her voice was soft and reserved, so different from when she’d entered his office.

She backed away, keeping eye contact until the door was closed, and Jim leaned back in his chair.

 

* * *

 

Coffee wasn’t a disaster.

It was much, much worse.

They’d gone to a cute cafe across London, small, quiet, out of the way and full of cozy furniture.  He’d had two bodyguards there on their own incredibly uncomfortable coffee date, just staring at each other in professional silence.  Ah, he loved being a matchmaker. Maybe after he handed his business off to Saoirse, he could set up his own little dating service. Real meet-cute.

Jim hadn’t had to seduce someone with his personality, his _real_ personality, in longer than he cared to think about.  He’d seduced Molly as Jim from IT, he’d seduced Kitty Riley as Richard Brook, dozens of other women under just as many identities, and he found playing the character to be as easy as slipping on a jacket.

It turned out that James Moriarty was absolute pants at an honest attempt, as himself, at initiating a romantic relationship based on more than just sex.

He’d gotten tongue tied and completely blanked on anything to talk about.  Her attempts at conversation, prodding him into revealing more about himself, had fallen flatly on his ears.

She’d asked about his family, he’d snarled they were all dead. Not true, his brother lived in Sussex.

She’d asked about his schooling, he said she knew about Carl Powers, and even that was too much.  Not true, he’d been a model student that got top scores. Other than Carl, he’d been incredibly studious and _boring._  He couldn’t, for the life of him, let her know that.

He’d been _nervous._

Then, in an act of true humiliation, he’d spilled his coffee.  On himself. On his pants. On his _crotch._

He’d shoved the little table back, Molly clutching her cup in surprise, and fled the cafe.  One tail had followed him, the other had stayed with her.

He’d taken a taxi back his building, ditching the guard, and had stomped to his room, ignoring the startled calls from Severin, Sally and Saoirse as he stepped over their game of Qwirkle they’d set up in the middle of the fucking floor.

He slammed his door and stepped into his enormous shower, fully clothed.  As the warm spray hit him in the face and made him sputter, he realized just entirely how unsettled he felt.  How humiliated.

How stupid.  He was _Jim Moriarty._  He didn’t falter over a _woman._  He stood in the shower, scowling, and glared at the door as it thumped open.

Molly stood there, still holding her cardboard cup of coffee, in her cute cardigan and corduroy pants, staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

He crossed his arms and sulked.

“Are you embarrassed?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee and grimacing.  She much preferred Severin’s French press blonde roast.

“No,” he muttered, “I just wanted a shower.  Suddenly.”

Sighing, she tipped her coffee into the sink and stepped into the shower with him.  She didn’t remove any of her clothes and, fortunately, hadn’t worn makeup. Her delicate braid instantly flattened and soaked through.

“I’m still mad at you,” she murmured, pressing her body close to his, “for that time when we fought.”

“You threw the first punch,” he replied automatically, winding his arms around her shoulders.

She sighed, “I know.  But you took it too far, Jim.”  Molly pressed her face into his sodden dress shirt, amending, “We both did.  Saoirse shouldn’t see her parents like that.”

His grip on her shoulder tightened for a minute.  She’d said it so easily, like it was obvious he was one of her parents and included in the family structure.  And she was _here_ , in his arms, her body fitting perfectly against his.  He leaned them back against the white tile of the wall, and said softly, “No, no she shouldn’t.  She should see her parents… work together.” He watched her face for any kind of sign. “And,” he added quickly, “we should not have… the fight was... “ he struggled to find the words, “I regret what happened,” was the most he could come up with, and the apology felt flat and awkward on his tongue.

“Yeah, me… me too,” said Molly, quietly, and looked up to stare at him, both of them awkward and vulnerable.  “It’s going to be hard,” she said, right when he was thinking of dipping his head to kiss her, “I don’t need anyone to help me with her, not really, and I’m going to have a hard time with…” She gestured, weakly, against his chest. “A second parent.”

He hummed, the moment for kissing her passed, and tilted his head, “I think it’s already happened.  The chess games, the academic help, the playdates. You’d adapted marvelously, and Saoirse,” he couldn’t help the way his voice swelled with pride, and Molly watched his eyes light up and his lips curl into a smile, “is the best thing I’ve ever helped create.  She’s going to be my _heir_ , Molly Hooper.  You don’t know what that means to me.”  His eyes darkened and he wound his arms around her tighter, resting his forehead against hers, “Nobody is going to get to you again.  Never.”

In response, Molly simply tilted her head up and slotted her mouth against his, the chaste kiss quickly turning heated, and before long, he’d shoved her heavy cardigan off of her shoulders and she’d quickly worked the buttons on his dress shirt.

He yanked on the fastening of her pants and she surged up against him.  He flipped them, so Molly was up against the wall, Jim pressing her there, and her corduroys hit the floor with a wet slap.  He impatiently reached one hand inside of her underwear, sliding his fingers over her sex, and her knees buckled from the sensation of it.

They were both trembling from want, and her hand fumbled on the zipper of his dress pants as he slipped two fingers inside of her.  She was wet, ready, and eagerly opened under him. She yanked his pants around the top of his thighs and grasped his erection triumphantly.  He shouted and thrust into her fist.

As Molly wrapped one leg around his waist and he automatically slid his hands down, to hook under her thighs and support her, he panted, “Are you… are you sure?”  He’d never asked anyone that before sex, not in his life, but it felt important _now_ , like if, later, she said this was a mistake it would _crush him_.  He needed to know, he needed her to say it.

She paused, pulling back, and she tilted her head, looking at him.  Whatever she saw in his face must have pulled at her heart strings, because her eyes softened and she nodded, leaning forward to kiss him gently.  “I’m sure,” she murmured against his lips, drawing in his lower lip to suckle on it and bite down hard enough to make him groan.

It was all he needed, and their eyes closed as he tilted his hips forward, lined them up and pressed into her.  She keened, loud and high, and he moaned deeply, the rumble in his chest shooting through her. She twitched around him, and he slid into her all the way to the hilt. It had been six years since he’d had sex with her, and he’d forgotten how incredibly tight she was.  Molly gripped him like a glove, and he instantly knew he wasn’t going to last long.

As soon as he started moving, he slid his thumb around to rub at her, trying to speed up her orgasm to hit either before or at the same time as his.  Molly’s muscles were tense and shaking against him, her hips trying to roll, and her dainty ankles locked around his hips.

She leaned forward and bit his neck, and he shouted loud enough that he was sure the group in the front room heard him.  His hips thrust against her harder, erratically, and he leaned his full weight into her, holding her against the wall as he freed one hand to manipulate her sex with less grace than he would like, but enough intent to get the job done.  His balls were getting so tight, heavy and full, and he growled at her, water in their eyes and steam thick in the air, “Come for me, Molly Hooper.”

Shockingly, _she did._  The rush of power tipped him over the edge, the feeling of her pulsing around him, the shouts of his name on her lips.  He covered her mouth with his, almost like he wanted to eat the sounds of her pleasure, and she whimpered. He came deep inside of her on one last, deep, desperate thrust, and rested his head on her shoulder as they both came down.

“Well,” she panted against his ear, “I think coffee went well.  How about you?”

He couldn’t help the rough chuckle that burbled out of his chest, and he pressed a firm kiss to her neck.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Mum?” Saoirse’s voice was high pitched and tense, her eyes wide and flicking to her father’s bedroom door.  Shortly after Jim had stomped in and slammed himself into his room, Molly Hooper had come up and followed him, giving her daughter a pat on the head and a murmur of assurance before she, too, had disappeared.

The game of Qwirkle was abandoned, which irritated Severin because he’d been winning, and he’d started cleaning up all the lacquered wooden squares.  Saoirse had locked her eyes onto the door and started working herself up into a frenzy.

Severin sighed and hauled himself up while Sally laid a hand on Saoirse’s back.  He walked over the door, giving a gentle double rap with his knuckles before opening it a bit.  There was a familiar, repetitive sound that was almost drowned out by the shower, accompanied by short moans and a shout that was absolutely Jim’s and absolutely not one of pain.

He shut the door quickly, turning and walking quickly back to the two of them, “Good news kiddo.  I think your parents have reached an accord.” He flicked his eyes meaningfully to Sally, “They’re going to be working out the, uh, _details_ for awhile.”

Sally raised her eyebrows nearly off her head and nodded slowly, “Ah, yes, the _details._ ”

Saoirse looked between them, flatly, “You know I’m not a baby, right?  They’re having _sex_ , aren’t they?”

Severin made an absurdly high pitched noise and Sally, who’d been taking a sip of her tea, sputtered and started coughing.  Concerned, Saoirse got up and started gently patting Sally’s back. “I, um, are you guys okay? Mum told me about all of this awhile ago and-”

“I… I… Your mother can tell you.  Later. When she comes-” Severin was turning red, and Sally’s face looked pained. “Exits the room.  Exits.”

Saoirse looked between them, suddenly understanding, “Oh!  You guys are uncomfortable. I mean, I can understand that.  He’s your boss, she’s my mum, but I mean, you guys are adults.  You should know how this works-”

Sally clapped a hand over her little mouth, face pleading, “Please, stop talking.  Can we go do literally anything else?”

Both of them had forgotten that Saoirse was not only the daughter of a highly educated pathologist, but of the insanely clever and observant Jim Moriarty.  They’d seen the anatomy books on her little bookshelf and Molly was a practical, no nonsense sort of parent. Saoirse was a practical, no nonsense sort of kid.  Her knowing about sex wasn’t exactly a surprise, but hearing her _talk_ about it…

Saoirse bit her lip and her eyes strayed to the front door.  “Maybe…” she tilted her head, then shook it. “No, we should be in the building when Mum and Dad are done.  They’ll worry if we go.”

“How about a movie?” Severin tossed out, grabbing the remote for the television, “Your Uncle Richard, your dad’s brother, set us up with all of the channels and a way to stream movies that haven’t come out yet.”

“Popcorn?  And soda?” Saoirse’s eyes lit up and Sally stood quickly, offering her hand.  Saoirse took it, suddenly a typical six year old excited at the prospect of sugar and empty calories.  They hopped off to the kitchen together as Severin got the channels set up and a list of movies for her to pick from.

Two hours later, when Molly and Jim came out of his room, they found the three of them cuddled up on the couch, dozing in front of the credits for some Disney-Pixar show.  Molly was wearing one of Jim’s dress shirts, and Jim was wearing a soft t-shirt and cotton lounge pants, the pair of them holding hands, ready to announce their tentative new relationship to the household, but the household was too sleepy to notice it.

Jim stared at Saoirse, who had her head on Sally’s shoulder, one of her arms drawn across her tiny torso, and her legs were in Severin’s lap, who had one large hand spanning both of her ankles, and he felt his heart swelling dangerously in his throat.  This was his _family_ , and the way Molly’s hand fit so perfectly in his own cemented his place in it.

“Looks like they’re asleep,” Molly whispered, leaning up to nibble on his ear.  She paused and pulled back, biting her lip. He looked at her, tapping his index finger against her knuckle.  Casting another furtive glance at their family piled on the couch, she quickly asked, in an even lower voice, “Can I look at the files?  Of the… incident?”

Her eyes were dark and serious.  Jim hadn’t really intended to extend an invitation to go over what he’d compiled, unless he saw a place where her skills would be useful, but this was the sort of thing they should share now, right?

He tilted his head and considered.  If he didn’t show her now, he was willing to bet she’d find another way to look at them.  Maybe render him unconscious with sex and then break into his office. She was just so saucy, his Molly Hooper.

He pressed his lips to hers, firmly, and decided.  “Of course. Would you like pants first, or… ?” He let his question trail off as his eyes slid down her impossibly long legs.

A blush crept up her neck, “Can’t control yourself, Jim?”

He squeezed her hand once before running his free hand down her back.  “Work first, I suppose. It’ll take some time to get you up to speed. But I insist on sitting behind you when you bend over.”  She snorted and he leaned in to peck her quickly on the forehead. “Let’s go.”

When Severin groggily went to check on them several hours later, the sun had gone down and their heads were huddled together over a wide spread of papers on his desk, each with a notepad, quietly conversing.  Severin closed the door so stealthily neither of them noticed, and muttered, _“Finally.”_

“Curry take-away,” Jim called, and Molly’s head snapped up.

“Got it, boss.”

He threw down his pencil, “And wake up everyone else.  Miss Hooper and I have an announcement to make.”

Her small, secret smile was tinged only slightly by the photograph of an impact spatter pattern in her hands, but Severin would bet his entire savings that Jim found it incredibly endearing.

“Got it, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Qwirkle is a real game and I love it. Only two chapters left, and this isn't the end of our conversation about the identity of the kidnapper!


	9. Darling Don't You Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You earned this, Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, sex in this chapter!

Virginia Browning.

The name of the kidnapper.  Her associates, he cared less about, and Jim tossed their files on his desk.  He opened hers up, and a mugshot of a young blonde, innocence lost, stared back at him with a blank, challenging gaze.  Her scar was still white, old, possibly from her childhood, and she had the same pattern of freckles and pure, pale blue eyes.

According to her file, her father had died when Jim was in his early twenties.  He’d been… sharpening his skills during that time frame. And his knives, and his wit, and his everything else.  Especially his sense of style, he’d done a job that had finally allowed him to buy his first tailored suit.

He’d met Sebastian and Severin around that time. Bought and paid for.

Literally.  They’d been slaves on an auction block in a very unsavory part of Moscow and he’d purchased them.  Waited for the tranquilizers to wear off, held a gun on both of them when they’d tried to rush him in a wild bid to win their freedom through combat, and offered them a deal.

Sign a contract.  Adhere to the contract.  Fulfill the contract, and then stay or go.

After so many years, they’d formed such a tight unit that they’d stayed.  He’d never destroyed the original paperwork, never officially made it null and void, but under the pile of Miss Browning’s associates, it sat in a manila folder.  The pages were still perfectly flat and crisp, if a little yellowed from age.

Sebastian’s condition hadn’t changed.  In the week since he’d started seriously pursuing a romantic relationship with Molly, he hadn’t had so much as a blip on the EEG he’d had set up a few days prior.  The nurses were politely optimistic, but he supposed a vegetative state equated job security in their profession.

Severin, however, was foolishly sure that his brother was going to wake up and be perfectly normal.

Even Saoirse, her adorably serious face peering up at him, “Dad, there at least four in depth, long term, double blind studies in the last ten years that show reading to someone in a coma can help stimulate their brain function and help them recover.”  She’d then, very intentionally, continued ignoring him to start reading the first Harry Potter book to Sebastian aloud.

Jim sighed and leaned his head back.  He’d already had his lawyer write up a new contract for Severin, one that included the clause of destroying the old one and thus freeing Sebastian Moran from the obligation of his employment.

He was just, as ever, so violently against releasing any sort of useful asset from his arsenal.

There was, however slim, a chance that Sebastian would choose to stay if and when he woke up.  He’d been, correctly, pegged as a loyal soldier pretty consistently by anyone who tried to break him.  If he stayed, things could pick up almost exactly where they’d left off.

Jim wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

These few short weeks had drastically shifted the dynamic of his household.  Him and Molly on very pleasant terms, Sally spending more time in the main flat, with Severin, and Saoirse clearly enjoying the multitude of positive relationships around her.  She loved to snuggle up between Severin and Sally, and Sally had leaned on her departmentally mandated psychotherapy training courses to help her open up about her fears, and had quietly dropped a list of discreet, highly recommended child therapists on Jim’s desk one day.

Sebastian’s stoic personality really didn’t have much of place in what had grown organically.

Jim stared very hard at the trefoil pattern embossed on his ceiling, the perfectly even, balanced swoops and swirls soothing him.  Without another thought, he dug the contract out of the bottom of the pile and ran it through the shredder.

He didn’t think about the identity of Virginia’s father again.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not your fault,” Jim said, his voice soft and soothing, two of his fingers on the receipt in front of him.  “You couldn’t have known what this would be used for.”

The stocky, middle aged man in front of him was sweating through his cheap plaid workshirt.  His graying, thinning hair was plastered to his head as he stuttered, “I… I… I…”

“I know, I know,” he crooned, swinging his black leather lace ups onto the desk, his long legs encased in black Gucci dress pants.  His suit was his most intimidating black Gucci, come to think of it, and Jim highly suspected that the effect was lost on this lifetime blue collar worker.  “You just do as you’re told. Get an order, build it, ship it out. As long as the money is good, who cares how many people will die inside of it?”

The man couldn’t stop quivering, and Jim frowned.  Like a bowl of gelatin.

“This isn’t going well.”  He stood, shoving his chair back.  “This suit is _wasted_ on you.  Moran.”

He stalked through the doorway, the quiet sound of the gun, muffled by a silencer, echoing behind him.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously,” Jim said flatly, staring at the tall, thin man with a bald patch and an ill-fitting polo.  He turned to look at Severin, who shrugged. “This is the man who owns the production company? With all of the cameras?”

“I had no idea,” he spread his hands in supplication, and he was so absolutely _normal_ , so plain, so boring, “that the equipment would be used for anything like that.  Virginia collaborated with us on occasion, she was actually quite talented.” He gave a wry grin under his mustache, “Quite the eye for composition, that one.  Are you two detectives? What’s going-”

Jim snarled and yanked the gun from Severin’s waist, shooting the man through the head.  He tossed it over his shoulder, and Severin caught it neatly.

He frowned viciously.  “Everyone is always ruining my fun, Moran.”

“As ever, Boss.”  His voice was even, his fingers flying across is phone as he called the cleaners to send a second crew over.

“Find me something _interesting_ ,” he snarled, and stomped back to the car.  “With someone who’s going to appreciate my suit,” he shouted over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft said, leaning on his umbrella, “You can’t just go around shooting civilian businessmen in the head.  No matter their secondhand, unwitting contribution to the captivity of your young offspring. A belated congratulations, by the by.  Sherlock’s assistance in her safe return was a… gift.” He raised one eyebrow. “From my house to yours.”

Jim sat, legs spread, on the hard metal chair in the middle of the warehouse.  Severin stood next to Anthea, hidden in shadow, at the edge of the room. “I accept your gift, and we both agree that it wipes out no debts between us.  Agreed?”

“Agreed.”  Mycroft’s nod was short and his tone professional.  Switching back to the matter at hand, “You will cease your trail of murders immediately.”

Jim gave him a blank, bored stare.  “No. I still have to sniff out the networking and-”

Mycroft sighed, “If you do not-”

“What,” he snapped, crossing one leg over the other and bouncing his heel, “are you going to do about it, Ice Man?”  He was getting bored, anxious, he wanted to kill everyone involved with Saoirse’s capture and go back _home_ , where he could fall between Molly’s thighs and then continue his game of chess with their daughter.  He longed, at the moment, to return to the fresh delightful sensation of domesticity.

The umbrella handle creaked for a moment as Mycroft’s hold tightened in annoyance.  He really hated that nickname. “I’m given to understand that threats against your household are no longer as effective as they once were.”

Jim sneered and quirked his head, “You’re welcome to make one and see what happens.”  His sneer slid into a smile, “It might even be _fun._ ”

Mycroft sighed and his brows drew together, the crease a valley of stress from Sherlock and Jim.  At length, he clipped, “Go home, Moriarty.”

He swung his umbrella as he strolled past, Anthea peeling out of the shadows to fall in line behind him.  Like a little duckling. Jim frowned and crossed his arms. _Boring._

“By the way,” Mycroft called over his shoulder, “Nice suit.”

Jim gave a satisfied smile.

“Come along, little duckling, Mama wants to go home,” he sang to Severin.  The older man rolled his eyes, but stepped into place at his heel as Jim practically skipped out into the night.

“Are we going to stop looking for-”  Severin asked, his phone in his hand.

“Of course not, Sevvie, don’t be silly.  But we are going to be a little more _discreet._  After meeting these two, I’m determined to not talk to another boring manager or president or owner _ever_ again.  Give me a bouquet of accidents over the next month, if you do so please.  Fatalities only, please! If you miss, try, try again!” He pushed open the double doors to the warehouse, spinning dramatically.  “Now, let’s go to my girls.”

 

* * *

 

Jim bit at Molly’s thighs in the wee hours of the morning, because she was in his bed and he could.  He’d always had trouble sleeping, something he was painfully glad had not been inherited by his offspring, and Molly was riding the line between wakefulness and slumber.  She hummed her assent to his questing hands, spilling her thighs open lazily, and relaxed back onto her pillow.

He worked his way up one side slowly, the other tapping out complicated math problems, because he was bored and her thigh was already in his hands.  He needed stimulation. Molly occupied his senses, and trying to figure out the exact angle he needed to shoot a handmade wooden arrow, using a custom made longbow, through a plate glass window and into one of the ugly hats of the Queen, while standing in a moving helicopter, occupied his mind.  A fun, if not practical, exercise.

He buried his nose in her curls, breathing her musk in deeply.  She moaned sleepily as he opened his mouth and kissed her, sliding his tongue inside of her, and nipped lightly at her outer lips.  She tilted her pelvis, and sighed as the adjusted angle had him hitting a more pleasurable spot with every thrust of his tongue. To retaliate, he shifted his head to the left.  She adjusted. He moved. Her welling frustration became a game until she slammed her thighs together on his head, annoyed, “I’m awake now, Jim.”

He pulled the blanket down over his head, purring, “Oh good, now the fun _really_ begins.”  He kissed her playfully on the navel.

Molly groaned and rolled over, swinging her leg over him and flopping down on the other side.  He scoffed and reached for her, trying to swing her back in front of him, “Excuse you, Miss Hooper, I wasn’t done with my breakfast.”

“I have to get back to Saoirse,” she muttered, her voice thick with sleep.  “She’s going to wake up soon, and she’ll panic if she’s not in my arms.”

Jim was silent for a moment.  “Let her,” he said, decisively, at length.

“Excuse me?”  Molly was suddenly fully awake, her dressing gown belted, and she looked at him with a frigid expression.

“She’s not an infant, Molly, not even a toddler.”  He propped himself up on his elbows and spread his hands.  “She’s in her room, she’s safe, and she _has_ to learn how to deal with these things on her own.  You can’t keep coddling her.”

She stared at him, her expression caught between guilty and furious, before she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “I know,” she bit out, “that you’re her father. I know that we’re supposed to be doing this _together_ now, but this is a _really_ bad time to start.”

“Bring her back in here,” he tossed out, trying to compromise.

“You have a massive erection,” she shot back, and he gave her a wide smirk and winked.

“I’m glad you think so,” he purred, “Help me take care of that and we can fetch her when she wakes.”  To illustrate his point, and provide motivation, he flipped over onto his back and threw the blanket aside.  His cock stood up, thick and proud, and he rolled his hips. She looked at him, her eyes going dark, and she bit her lip.

He took himself in hand, stroking himself slowly, and spread his legs out in an obvious display.  He tugged, lightly, and moaned her name, “Mooolly,” pulling the vowels through his teeth. His eyes were closed, but he couldn’t help the quirk of his lip at the dip in the mattress.

Molly straddled him, still in her dressing gown, and opened one eye to peek at her.  “We have to be fast,” she whispered, and sank down.

Jim let himself go as she bottomed out, both of them groaning, clever fingers dragging up to pluck at the knot holding her gown closed.  She let him pull it open, his hands roaming over her breasts and torso, switching between rubbing where they joined and pinching her nipples.

He sighed, “You’re so damn beautiful, Molly Hooper,” his fingers resting on the scar tissue of her belly, shiny white stripes over the slightly soft stubborn patch of fat that refused to leave.  She rolled her hips over him, finding the angle from his tongue that morning, and rode him without mercy.

“Jim,” she sighed, tilting her head back, “Jim.  My Jim.” At the possessive, he thrust up into her, hard, and she gave a yelp of unexpected pleasure.

“Say it again,” he panted, a wild look in his eye, and he reached down to grip her hips.  He wanted to leave bruises, shaped like his fingertips, and didn’t want to think why.

“J- Jim.  My Jim.” Her eyes went dark and heavy lidded, and this time, she bore down on him when he rutted up into her.  She leaned down, pressing her breasts into his chest, and whispered into his ear, “You’re mine, Jim Moriarty. I live in your house,” she kissed his jaw, “I sleep in your bed,” she bit his earlobe, “I bore your child.  You’re mine, Jim Moriarty, and I’m yours.”

It was everything he’d wanted, the best sort of dirty talk, and he held her still, curling up to hide his face in her neck while he moved inside of her with abandon.  He growled and shouted, breaths coming in huge pants, and one shaking, sweaty, tense hand reached down to swirl his thumb over her, pressing down and drawing out sounds of pleasure.

They came together, and he held her hip in place, pressing down on him so hard he was almost uncomfortable, and he filled her as he sank his teeth into her neck and put a large, lurid, very visible mark on her.  She shouted and dug her nails into his shoulders as she pulsed and shook around him.

Then, there was a scream of pure fear, infused with panic, and Molly flew off of his lap.  She was still shaking from her orgasm as she clutched her robe closed, and he wrapped his blanket around his hips as he pulled a handgun from the night stand.

He got to the door before Molly, pushing her back gently, and listened at the door for a moment.

The wordless scream again, followed by a high pitched, “ _Mommy!”_

Jim flung open his door at the same time Severin and Sally, both mussed, came out of the guest room.  Severin held a wicked knife, and Sally a small gun. The screaming stopped, suddenly, and together as a unit, they _moved._

Sally took up the rear, Severin at the front with Jim close at his back, and Molly in the middle.

They waited at Saoirse’s door for a heartbeat before Jim lost all patience and kicked it in.

The four of them flooded the tidy little room, and all stopped in shock.

“The door was _open_ ,” groused Sebastian, holding Saoirse in his lap, loose wires dangling from him, “I’ll call maintenance after I get dressed.  You alright now, Saoirse?”

“Y… yeah.”  She trembled, her eyes large and scared.  “Just a nightmare.” She sniffed and climbed off of his lap carefully.  “I’m… I’ll go back to bed.”

“Are you sure?” he coaxed, everyone else in the room still stunned into silence, “I think cartoons are on about now, and I feel like I’ve had a great nap.  And I’m _hungry_ , how long was I out?”

Jim was the first to react, giving a bark of laughter and almost dropping his blanket.  Fortunately, Molly reached over and held it in place. “You have no idea, Moran.”

 

* * *

 

Jim adjusted the lapel of Saoirse’s own miniature suit.  He’d had it commissioned at the same time as the one he currently wore, and he’d even gotten a little bow made of the shirt material, to be clipped over her ear in her short, slicked back dark hair.

She looked just like him, except for the pointed little features that were all Molly.

Her expression, however, was all wrong.  She was nervous, anxious, and afraid.

“Fix your face, my own,” Jim sang.  “You’re seven today, darling, no longer a little baby.  I’ve been saving this for your birthday, and it’s going to be so _fun._ ”

They were in the middle of a junkyard, abandoned, and in front of Saoirse Hooper sat the tank that had haunted her nightmares for months.  There was a pile next to it; cameras, monitors, printers, and a lot of cables.

On top of all of it sat a black full face mask, the plastic visor viciously cracked.

“I wanted you to shoot it all, but your mother told me absolutely not, under no circumstances are you to hold a gun.  So,” he pulled his favorite Beretta out of his pocket, kneeled down, and laid his arm over her shoulder. “Tell me what to do, Saoirse.  You get one bullet.”

“The mask,” she said softly, and then louder, her voice a much firmer command, “The mask.  Through the forehead.” She turned and touched her little finger to the spot between Jim’s eyebrows “There.”

He gave her a wide, wicked grin, and placed her hand on his trigger finger.  “Push down when you’re ready. It’s going to be _loud_ , little one.”

“I know,” she said automatically, “I learned about it in my lessons.”

“Of course you did,” and his heart _swelled_ with pride.  She put her little fingers over his large one and visibly steeled herself before exerting pressure on him.  He pulled the trigger, both of their ears ringing, and hit the mask right between where the eyes would have been.  The plastic shattered and the shell of it clattered to the ground. Empty and useless.

Saoirse was panting, her hands trembling, and he put a steadying hand on her shoulder, “She’s dead, Saoirse.  Her name was Virginia Browning, and I shot her in the head. She took you, and then I killed her.” Saoirse turned to look at him, her eyes suspiciously bright, and he went on, “You’re a Hooper, but you’re also a Moriarty.  Do you know what a Moriarty does with something that bothers them?”

“No,” she said, her voice rough with impending tears.

He held up a small remote with one button on it, “We blow it up.”

Her face curled into a smile

 

* * *

 

That night, in the study, Jim was concentrating on the game of chess between him and Saoirse.  She’d changed out of her suit after her birthday party, where she’d chirped happily about the explosion she’d gotten to detonate, and was now in a new set of pajamas.  She curled deeper into her favorite chair, brushing her hair back out of her eyes.

“Your move, Dad.”  She yawned and blinked slowly.

“I’m _thinking_ , my own, you should try it sometime.”  He slowly picked up his pawn and set it neatly one space ahead.

She instantly captured him with her knight.

Molly came in quietly, in her new silken bathrobe, and sat neatly on the couch.  She pulled a small medical journal out of her pocket, and snapped it open. “How was your day, Saoirse?”

“I had a lot of fun, Mum.  Thank you for my gift, I’ll write my notes tomorrow.”  She stretched out, her eyes closing for a moment, and she smiled, “I think I’m going to like being seven.”

Jim looked up to catch the impossibly tender look on her face as she gazed at Saoirse.  She caught his eye and gave him a pleased smile. He fought the urge to go to her, cup her jaw and kiss her senseless.

The feeling of belonging settled deep into his bones, in this little room, warm and drowsy and surrounded by his family, and Jim serenely reached out to put his daughter in check.  “Check,” he sang, and she frowned at him. As she reviewed the board, he stood languidly, “Don’t worry, my darling, we have all the time in the world for you to beat me.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a look of annoyance.

He couldn’t help the smile that slid over his face.

This had absolutely been worth waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late everyone, I agonized over every inch of it. Only the epilogue is left, thank you guys so much for going with me on this long, wild ride!


	10. That Everything, Everything Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not too late, Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's less sex and more deep themes in this chapter!

Jim waited impatiently at the train station, four plain clothes bodyguards at the entrances and exits, a sniper on the roof opposite him.  He ran a hand through his hair, making sure the widening stripes of gray at his temples were laying flat. Molly constantly told him how handsome the silver strands made him look, and her passion for him hadn’t dulled, but the unpredictability of his own body’s changes was maddening.

It seemed like every day, he found a new one out of place.  At the rate he was plucking them, he’d be bald within the year.

Idly, he wondered how he’d look if he just shaved his head.  No, Molly would kill him. She loved his hair. Specifically, she loved grabbing handfuls of it during bouts of intense passion, and he was sure she’d strangle him between her lovely thighs if he got rid of it.

He felt a pang of misery, she’d been out of the country for two weeks, touring various hospitals in Europe and giving lectures around her newest book.  Jim had been funding her research laboratory for the past seven years, and with almost no restrictions she’d been able to make progress in leaps and bounds, around whatever subject she chose.  He’d only required her to discreetly develop him a poison once or twice or maybe more, and she’d fought him tooth and nail each time. They’d fight, he’d pout, and she’d eventually fold. She made him the quantity he required and then destroyed her notes and any remaining samples.  It was one of many points of tension in their relationship, and he constantly had to remind her that he was still a criminal consultant, a criminal mastermind, and just because he still played chess with their daughter and lounged about the flat in her comfortable floral sweatpants sometimes, he was still highly dangerous and temperamental.  Then they’d fight, and it would end in sex, and he decided two weeks was entirely too long for her to be away from him. He pulled out his mobile and double checked her location, she should be arriving tomorrow evening, but after bringing Saoirse home, maybe he could get on a flight to where she was tonight…

She was only three hours away by jet, and he already had the access code for her hotel room.  Jim stuck the tip of his tongue out of his mouth while he sent a flurry of messages and arranged his transportation in two hours time.  She was staying in Milan, so he didn’t even have to pack. He’d just buy a new suit in the morning and have her throw his current one in her luggage.  Maybe he could even convince her to try on something couture, he swore she still wore her ugly jumpers just to spite him. She said they were _comfortable_ , but he gave a scoff of disgust at each patterned horror she pulled out of their closet.  To have _those_ hanging next to his Gucci and Westwood?  Unthinkable.

If Saoirse’s train was any later, though, he was going to have to send a crew out to find what was wrong.  He’d grown more paranoid since her kidnapping, but he’d honed it into an art of timing and manpower over the decade and change since.

After the whole Virginia Browning incident, it had come out after a year of investigating that she’d been following Jim since before Molly, and once he’d ‘died’ and Molly had become suspiciously pregnant right after, she’d kept tabs on his little pathologist until he slithered his way back into the game.  She’d worked at every school and daycare, in the background, out of sight staff, that Saoirse had ever been enrolled in. She’d owned, or had a large stake in, every shell corporation for cleaning and maintenance that had ever been in his building, and she’d been working on the entire plot for _years_ before even making a single move.  Even now, thirteen years later, he felt a pang of regret for shooting her so early.  She’d had such potential, and he could have leveraged her immense hatred of him to mold a very formidable opponent, maybe a partner one day.  But she’d tried to kill Saoirse, and he’d killed three people since for simply sending letters threatening bodily harm to the littlest Moriarty.

But now, he knew where everyone in his family was at any given time.  Even, discreetly, Sebastian. After he’d been rehabilitated and pronounced fit to return to an active lifestyle, he’d left.  His personality had changed, just a little, he was a little more open, a little softer, and when Saoirse had thrown her little arms around him as he’d packed up his life and stood at the threshold of the Moriarty household, he hadn’t flinched.  In fact, he’d embraced her _back._  He’d bounced around the world, but seemed to be hovering in the areas between Romania and Russia, a little cabin in the bitter cold.

He’d formed his own family, having a string of lovers that had settled into two consistencies, a woman named Natasha and a man named Antonio, both assassins by trade.  He had seemed to seriously consider the invitation to this year’s holiday dinner from Jim, but had made no promises. He had yet to see his newest niece, a puffy haired little infant Severin and Sally had named Margot.  As if four children wasn’t enough, as Jim had sourly brought up every time the Morans bustled over to his household. Molly had strictly told him that there were no more baby Moriarties in the picture, despite his seductive attempts to track her ovulation cycle and point out adorable tiny suits he could have custom made.

He hummed lightly as he scrolled through fashion houses, ateliers that had examples of children’s clothing on hand.  He sent two of them quick messages, arranging appointments for the next day. The walls of the station rumbled, and he looked up sharply.

The slick silver train pulled into the station, ten minutes behind schedule due to a minor mechanical failure that had been quickly repaired, and his report from on board had assured him it was in no way an attempt on Saoirse’s life.  Just a small, random accident that could have happened to anyone, any time.

He stood stock still, directly in the way, as crowds of college-aged young adults streamed around him.  He got a lot of dirty looks, but no elbows to the side. Last time a mass exodus from the campus had happened, a tall, strapping young man had tried to knock him over.  He was still in a wheelchair, last Jim had heard, courtesy of dear Sevvie. Now, he got a wide berth.

His half smirk died on his face as he saw Saoirse through the crowd.  Her hair, well past her waist and pulled back into a long plait, was tossed over her shoulder.  She was wearing a tasteful peacoat that was a bit masculine, and one he absolutely did not remember buying for her, because it wasn’t hers. It belonged to Idris Singh, who was carrying her luggage and had her arm wrapped around his elbow.

He’d gotten tall and almost painfully handsome.  His hair was up in a high topknot, the underside shaved, and his chiseled face was framed by enough scruff that Jim _knew_ it was artfully cultivated.  He’d _invented_ that level of casual dishabille.  To see Saoirse’s slim hand come up to stroke his cheek… if Jim hadn’t put his phone back into his pocket, he would have snapped it in half.

She saw him through the crowd and let go of Idris’s arm, running for him and throwing her arms around his neck, “Dad!  Mum said you’d be here!” She kissed his cheek and he patted her back in return, his eyes narrowed on Idris’s face. He didn’t look frightened, which annoyed Jim twenty times more than he’d been a minute ago.  His face must have been dark, because when Saoirse pulled back to look at him, she rolled her eyes. “Mum didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Jim snapped, sliding his dark gaze to her.

She stepped back and put her hand on the younger man’s arm, clad in a tasteful button-up that Jim vehemently didn’t approve of.  It was _clearly_ off-rack.  Not tailored at all.  “Idris and I have started seeing each other,” she said, voice low and soothing.  He scowled at her. That was _his_ de-escalation voice.

When he didn’t say anything, Idris stepped forward and held out one dark, well-formed hand.  “Mr. Moriarty. Your daughter is a gem of a woman.” Jim pointedly put his hands in his pockets.  Puns related to his family’s business? Hilarious, but also so _tacky_.

“How long has your mother known?” Jim ignored the hand until it fell back to his side.  All thoughts of seducing Molly in Milan were flying out of his head, being replaced with a passionate argument about their daughter being allowed to _date_. She was barely twenty years old!

Saoirse sighed, “I know you’re flying out to see her tonight, why don’t you talk to her then?  Idris can take me-”

“Nowhere.  Idris can take you _nowhere_ and how did you know I’m flying out to see your mother?”  Inwardly, he preened, his daughter was almost painfully intelligent, but outwardly, his scowl was getting dangerously deep.

She looked at him like he was stupid.  “It’s been almost _two weeks_ , Dad.  I know you love me, but you _need_ Mum.  You didn’t used to, when I was little, but over the years…”  She shrugged and smiled at him, “Most couples grow farther apart as they age, not closer together.  You must have been a terror these past ten days.”

Jim rolled his eyes, huffing, “Your mother makes life _interesting_ , my progeny.”

“My mother just came back from Venice, Mr. Moriarty, she said Miss Hooper looked very happy, but also very lonely,” Idris piped up, and Jim sent him a death glare.  There were two things that bothered him about his statement. One, that Navya Singh was visiting his wife, out of the country, without him knowing. Molly had tried to step outside of the world of crime for the sake of her career, and Navya only ever went to Venice on official business.  He’d have to arrange a meeting with Vikram. Molly always had a full guard, but bringing unnecessary attention to her made his jaw clench. Two, Miss Hooper. The fact that she’d refused every elaborate proposal he’d thrown for her was still a sore, aching spot on his tender little heart.  He loved her, she was his family, and he wanted to bind him to her in every way possible. Until death.

She always kissed him, after each one, so softly, and always sighed, “No, I will not be your wife,” as she guided him between her thighs.

Beautiful, brilliant, infuriating woman.

He now had an hour and a half left to wait.

Wordlessly, he reached out and took Saoirse’s bag from Idris, tossing it artfully through the crowd behind him in one swing.  One of the plainclothes guards stumbled out and barely caught it before it touched the ground. “Let’s go, Saoirse.” He turned neatly on his heel, starting to stalk through the crowd.

“Actually,” she said, soft but firm, “I’m going to the movies with Idris.  We’re going to see that new American action movie.” She smiled, “We’ve been planning on critiquing the villain for months.”  She very pointedly laced her fingers with his, putting her other in the oversize jacket pocket. Idris, true to his patronage, stayed silent and let her take the lead.

He stopped.

He turned.

The Moriarty of a decade ago would have grabbed her arm, or had the guards simply bundle her up, and dragged her back.  Defiance was not tolerated. Of course, Saoirse had gotten _very_ good with knives, and Molly had designed a paralytic agent for her blades, so the Moriarty of a decade ago would have probably lost feeling in at least two of his limbs during the ensuing scuffle.  As much as he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, the Moriarty of a decade ago probably would have _lost._

He stared at his daughter, his heir, his pride and joy.  He’d always hated those terms, always felt they were cliche and dull and ordinary, but they were _fitting_.  She still had his big, dark eyes, his coloring, but the shape of her face was all Molly.  He felt a familiar, violent urge to tear it all down, to kill what he couldn’t control, but it was second nature to push it down and cover it up.

He strode back over, almost lazily, and put both hands in his pockets.  He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She smiled and softly said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Jim sighed and rubbed his eyebrows, “You’re taking three of my guards, and I want you home, _alone_ , by 10pm.  You know I’ll know if you’re late.”  He nodded once to Idris, keeping eye contact while Saoirse kissed his cheek.  They murmured pleasantries and parted ways. Most of Jim’s entourage peeled away to follow the two young lovers.

 

* * *

 

Jim was waiting for Molly in her hotel room after her lecture.  He’d neatly hung up his blazer and trousers, folded the rest of his clothes and put them tidily in the dresser, and was now sporting a fluffy bathrobe, wearing one of her gold-infused face masks, and sipping a flute of fine champagne.

She opened the door, trying to balance her notes, books, and a laptop, and didn’t notice him right away.  After shoving all of it, rather forcefully, onto a little square table in the corner, she turned and gasped, “Jim!  You startled me! I thought you’d be here sooner, honestly.”

He glared at her, “Molly.”

She ran a hand through her short bob, artfully disturbing the waves she’d put in that morning.  He’d thrown a fit when she’d cut her hair, but he had to admit it made her look more… mature. It had grown on him.

She peeled off her white jumper, the most tasteful one she’d ever allowed him to put in her wardrobe, and he didn’t let himself be deterred by the cute pink bra underneath.  “I take it Saoirse had an… escort on the train.” Her black pencil skirt shimmied down her hips, leaving her in her stockings and heels, and he snapped his eyes to the window.  _Focus_.

“She did.  How long, exactly,” he purred, “have they been seeing each other?”

Molly kicked off her black leather heels, peeled off her stockings, and crawled onto the bed to straddle him.  He didn’t react when she plucked the champagne flute from his fingers and took a long sip of her own. One of his hands automatically went to the little pink bows on her underwear, toying with the ribbon.  She sighed and settled herself against him, “Navya and I found out when we went to tea at the campus. A few months ago? She and I think it’s adorable.”

She set the flute down on the end table and wrapped her arms around his neck.  He ground his teeth and didn’t look at her.

“My lecture went well,” she said softly, trying to change the subject.

“Of course it did,” he replied automatically, hand sliding from her hip to her bare waist, “You’re brilliant.  I’ve _always_ said so.”  She’d been so nervous, so self conscious around this tour, and he couldn’t help but bolster her whenever he could.

She hummed and kissed him, gently nibbling on his lower lip and attempting to draw him into a deeper, more passionate kiss.  He lifted his head up and away, “My mask, darling, I told you that you’d regret turning me on to these. No more kisses until it’s ready to come off.”  His look turned sullen, and his attention veered back to Saoirse, “You hid it from me.” His voice was slightly, maybe, a tiny bit, betrayed.

Molly sighed and sat back, “Jim, it wasn’t… you’re her father, we’ve been co-parenting all these years, but there are some things that are just between mothers and their children.”

The light from the windows got slightly less saturated, slightly grey, and cast her face into a darker shadow.  He both hated and loved her at the same time. Nothing but extreme passion, but a dull ache that he couldn’t squash wormed its way to the surface.  “Co-parenting,” he said softly, a slightly derisive cut to his voice.

At length, as she tilted her head up and they studied each other in silence, he whispered, “Why won’t you be my wife, Molly Hooper?”

She froze, her hands sliding to her thighs, and didn’t move.

“I love you,” he continued, watching her face, “What we have isn’t about Saoirse, it’s grown beyond her.”

“Is it possible, Jim, for you to love anyone?”  The answer was automatic, and a tendril of something, fear or nervousness or shame, stole across her eyes like a veil.  “Sometimes, most times, I wonder if this is something you can just turn off whenever you feel like it. You become Moriarty, my client, when you walk into my lab, and I’m always so scared that you’re going to do to me what you do to other people that tell you no.”

He lifted his hands from her instantly, folding them back across his chest.  She still sat astride him, but this has turned into something that he knew she wouldn’t find arousing.  “You always say yes,” he started, and she interrupted him.

“That’s not a good thing, Jim.”  She looked to the side, “I won’t.  Not anymore. No more poison, no more drugs, no more _crime._ ”  She slid off of him.  “I won’t… I love you, Jim, and it’s not something I’m always proud of, but it’s not something I can turn on and off at will.  I love you, Jim, but I can’t be your wife. Well,” she amended softly, “I could be Jim’s wife. I can’t marry Moriarty.”

Without another word, he grabbed his phone and cancelled his appointments with the ateliers he’d made earlier.  He booked a new one, at a place that only sold menswear.

She went to the bathroom, showered, and came back dressed in hideous cat-printed pajamas.  He went, peeled off his mask, and stared at himself in the mirror of the opulent master bath for much longer than was probably healthy.

This was it.  This was the crux of their relationship, the heart of the problem.  Molly didn’t _need_ him, not really, even though it was the ruthlessness of Moriarty that kept her lab funded, her wardrobe stocked, and kept her safe from threats he’d rather she not know existed.  She’d pulled Jim out from somewhere inside of him, a man who enjoyed domesticity and didn’t panic when people didn’t act according to his mental predictions. A man who could relax and enjoy her, as opposed to the ruthless tiger that would only rip her to shreds.  Molly didn’t need him, but without her, Jim would cease to exist.

When he pushed himself closer, he realized he didn’t know what he would have done, if Molly had not made him all of the items he requested for his work.  Her line in the sand, her outright refusal from minutes ago, made something ugly turn over low in his stomach, and an instinct to slap her down, back into place.  

He had to remind himself, almost desperately, that he didn't own her.  Nobody owned her. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t force her into accepting him.  He could either treat her like a wife, like a partner, or he could treat her like an asset.

He’d been trying to balance both, and his willful ignorance into how badly it had affected her was… The longer he thought about the implications of this conversation, the more his inside quavered to hold her and snap her neck at the same time.  Where would she go, if she left? What would he do, without her in his life?

He slammed open the door to the bathroom and jumped onto the bed, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her up against him.  He breathed harshly through his nose as he felt the violent swings of emotion pull through him. Destroy her lab, pull the funding, unless she agreed to work for him whenever he needed it.  Give her everything, give her all of it, and step back completely. Hug her. Fight her. Marry her. Kill her. In the end, he did nothing but press his face into her neck, gripping her tightly enough that in the morning, she would have bruises.  Molly herself didn’t react much, just gently slid one hand through his hair, cupping the back of his head.

She fell asleep eventually, and the steady sound of her heartbeat pulled him under afterwards.

 

* * *

 

He sat on the plane, opposite her, in a crisp new Givenchy.  They’d talked him into the slightly more whimsical red-on-red chevron pattern for his tie, contrasting with the bright white of his dress shirt and deep, richly hued blue of his suit itself.  Even his shoes, a tasteful brown leather lace up, were something he would not have considered unless the self-proclaimed ‘Gui’ had not made a rather convincing argument about taste, style, trendiness, and versatility.

He’d just wished for Molly to be there to tease him about something so basic as blue, red, white and brown going together.  He wanted her to sit there, so bold in a long lemon-patterned jumper and cheap leggings, and critique his ten thousand pound outfit.  He loved her audacity so much, he’d ravished her in more than one private dressing room, despoiling his suit before it had even been properly hemmed.

But they hadn’t spoken since they’d woken up, still tightly intertwined.  She’d silently dressed herself in the lemons and leggings, before picking up her leather satchel and closing the door after her with a finality.

She was here, though, on his plane, curled up with a new fantasy novel while nursing a paper cup of tea.  She hadn’t commented on his outfit, and he knew that his Westwood would be neatly folded and pressed against the white sweater from yesterday in her luggage.

As the plane started up the runway, he felt strangely heavy.  “Molly,” he called, her name thick in his throat. She looked up at him, face blank.  He quirked one side of his mouth, “I love you,” and her face softened, “and I’ll stop asking.”

She took the words for what they were immediately, his clever girl.  “I’m sorry, Jim. I love you too.” She sounded genuinely regretful, and he reached out his hand.  She took it, smiling at him sadly.

He’d stop asking her to marry him.

He’d stop asking her to manufacture him biological weaponry.

He couldn’t not be Jim and Moriarty, they were two halves of the same coin.  But to keep her, to not drive her away, he’d respect her boundaries. She’d accept his limits if he could accept hers.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the flight, but the atmosphere was slightly less heavy than before.

 

* * *

 

After the Christmas party, which went well enough, Saoirse found Jim on the roof, by the pool.  He was staring at the spot where their old building used to be, which was now a greenspace and a park.  He’d had it demolished two years after the kidnapping, just to comb over every corner to see if he’d missed anything.  Now, it was lit up with fairy lights and happy children.

“You look lonely,” she said softly, dropping down next to him.  She handed him a glass of good Irish whiskey, neat, and took a sip of her own flavored carbonated water.

He sipped it and hummed his appreciation.

“Mum looked lonely too,” she prodded, raising her eyebrow.

“Your mother has been fussing over Sebastian since-”

“I didn’t mean now.”  She interrupted him, staring at him closely.  He slid his gaze over to her. “Before you. She looked lonely, all the time.  Even with Sherlock, she looked lonely. I noticed, because nobody knows when children are looking at you.  Even Sherlock underestimated me, and I’ve grown to respect his ability to not do that.” She turned her body to look at him, slipping one foot under her thigh.  “Mum loves you, Dad. I’ve known since I was five that I was different from her. She’s not made think about this life, even though you and I were born to flourish like this.  She wouldn’t tell me what you talked about in Milan, but I have a pretty good idea.”

He looked down, “I’ve stopped asking her.  I told her I would stop.” He took another sip and looked up at the stars.

Saoirse looked sad, “For all of it?”

“For all of it,” he confirmed.

They sat in silence together, staring at the London skyline.

“You know, Mum always has to have an out.  She always has. A bolthole, an extra bank account, a way to leave without a trace.  She’s _scared_ , Dad, that’s her default mode.  I love her, and she’s incredibly brave to build the life she did for us while being frightened almost out of her mind the entire time, but if she accepts that ring, and signs that contract, it’ll spook her.”  Saoirse shook her head, long braid flipping over her shoulder to snake down her back. “You can love her and have the life you’ve always wanted, Dad, without having to have a ceremony.”

He sighed and leaned back, crossing his arms, “When did you get so smart?”

She smiled and bumped her arm against his, “When I realized you were my dad.  I had big shoes to fill.” She fiddled with her can for a moment, wiggling the metal tab back and forth, before reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulling out a packet of paperwork.  “Here. I wanted to give you this in private.”

He accepted it silently, draining his whiskey and setting the cut glass tumbler next to him neatly.  As he stared at the paperwork, he blinked very rapidly. “I’m your daughter, Dad, and I wanted you to know that I’m proud of it.”  It was a deed poll, forms for changing a name.

There, in her own precise handwriting, in stark black letters, ‘Saoirse Margaret Hooper-Moriarty’.

“It’s a mouthful,” he said immediately, and she laughed.

Wrinkling her nose, she shrugged, “I wanted to do Moriarty-Hooper, but the mother’s name first is rather traditional.”

Suddenly, he pulled her into a tight embrace.  “I haven’t been lonely since you threatened to kill me in my study,” he said tightly, crushing the paperwork in his grip.  “You don’t have to change your name, you don’t have to follow my footsteps, you don’t have to meet any of my expectations, Saoirse.  You’re my daughter. That’s enough.”

In a voice thick with sudden tears, gripping his shoulders, Saoirse bit back, “Just shut up and accept the gesture, Dad.”

 

* * *

 

Saoirse slept in her old room, Sebastian and his entourage in the guest suite, and the Moran-Donovan household stomped their way their way back to their own floor of the building.

Seeing Sebastian and Severin trying to beat each other at arm wrestling, Antonio and Natascha taking turns holding little Margot while chatting with Sally about the nature of their work as a trio of contract killers.  Saoirse had cuddled with the other Moran brood while texting someone, by the dreamy look on her face, Jim had a future gem mogul to strangle.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, quietly, Jim felt a thick blanket of peace wash over him.  Even though Molly had been quiet, sitting apart and talking quietly with Sebastian from time to time, he hadn’t felt… bad.  He hadn’t felt lonely. He had felt…

Molly cleared her throat behind him.  They hadn’t spoken since the flight, and Saoirse’s words from earlier jumped to the front of his mind.   _She’s scared._

She didn’t look scared now, she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.  Her hands were over her soft tummy, only made paunchier by age, and there were fine lines through all of her skin that he loved. He held out his hand, and she reached across to take it.

“I want to recite something for you,” she said, and her face started to blush.  He raised his eyebrow. She hadn’t blushed in… a very long time.

“Poetry, Miss Hooper?”  He let his voice slip out like velvet, encouraging her, and she paused in nervousness.

“Is that alright?”  She licked her lips and elaborated, “I found it, in a book, in Milan, and I just…”

He pulled her head down and kissed her, “Begin.”

She straddled him slowly, running her hands through his hair, and her eyes got very soft, “All night the sound had come back again, and again falls this quiet, persisting rain.”

He kissed her chin and she dragged her fingertips through the grey streaks at his temples.

“What am I to myself, that must be remembered, insisted upon so often? Is it,” he bit her collarbone and she gasped, “that never the ease, even the hardness of rain falling will have for me, something other than this,” he kissed her lips softly, feeling strangely moved, and she parted, “something not so insistent. Am I to be locked in this final uneasiness?”

She pulled back and cupped his face, eyes searching his while she softly intoned, “Love, if you love me, lie next to me.”

His hands slip up her arms to loosely cup her wrists.

“Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-lust of intentional indifference.”  Something inside of him froze and broke and set on fire all at once, and his hands went up to cover hers on his face, eyes trained on her, even as her thumb slid down to press into his lower lip.

“Be wet,” she said, “with a decent happiness.”

She waited for a heartbeat, and then two, and he realized she was done and starting to look nervous at his lack of reaction.  So, as she started to pull away he pulled her in close, grabbed her, and kissed her soundly.

He kissed her to show her he understood, and he covered her like a rain cloud, praising her, licking her, covering every inch in honor of the closest thing he would ever get to a declaration out of her.  He tugged her thighs apart and made several declarations of his own between them.

Saoirse would grow, become educated, date, and maybe marry one day.

Molly would never marry him, but she would stay at his side, like a deer beside a wolf, and as long as he didn’t snap his jaws too sharply, she wouldn’t bolt away into the deep, dark forest before him.

It wasn’t a perfect existence, it would need constant work and negotiating, but he would never, ever be lonely again.

As he buried himself, body and soul, inside of Molly Hooper, Jim Moriarty found he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for staying with me through this story! This is the biggest fic I've made to date, and the first large one that I've finished. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it and reading your lovely comments. Thank you all!
> 
> PS- The poem Molly recites to Jim is one of my favorites: The Rain by Robert Creeley. Really lovely.


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